JOE  CALIf.  LISBARY,  LOS  AMGELBS 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 


CORRA  HARRIS 


THE 
EYES    OF    LOVE 


BY 

CORRA  HARRIS 

AUTHOR  OF  "MY  SON,"  "HAPPILY  MARRIED," 
"A  CIRCUIT  RIDER'S  WIFE,"  "THE 

RECORDING  ANGEL,"  ETC. 

AND  IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  FAITH  HARRIS 

LEECH:  "FROM  SUNUP  TO  SUNDOWN" 


NEW  ^ISr   YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    I922t 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


THE    EYES    OF    LOVE 


21.30572 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 


PART  ONE 
CHAPTER  I 

Millidge  is  an  old  Southern  city,  spread  like  a 
wide,  glistening  web  of  loveliness  upon  the  sur- 
rounding hills.  Long  avenues  pass  through  it  like 
spokes  in  a  wheel,  all  converging  toward  the  center; 
everything  white  and  green,  very  clean — parks, 
schools,  churches,  and  yet  more  churches.  An  opu- 
lent, comfortable-looking  city  which  gives  the  im- 
pression of  having  retired  from  business  and  of 
now  living  on  an  income,  not  extravagant,  but  ele- 
gantly sufficient  for  its  genteel  needs.  There  are 
no  shops  nor  stores  in  the  residence  sections.  The 
impieties  of  commercialism,  the  grossness  of  earn- 
ing its  daily  bread  and  its  excess  taxes  and  its 
surtaxes  are  confined  to  a  segregated  district  known 
as  the  business  section  which  she  holds  in  the  hollow 
of  her  hand  far  down  in  the  middle  of  the  town. 
It  is  the  strictly  masculine  section;  ladies  are  rarely 
seen  there  except  as  fair  faces  in  fine  cars  that  pass 
swiftly  and  noiselessly  through.  At  certain  hours 

7 


8  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

of  the  day  girls,  of  the  clerk  and  stenographer  class, 
pale  and  pretty  as  shadow-flowers,  descend  from 
every  doorway  and  wreathe  into  the  crowd;  but, 
taking  it  all  hours  of  the  day,  men,  trolley-cars, 
and  trucks  are  in  the  excessive  majority.  A  small, 
congested,  noisy  area  where  the  centrifugal  forces 
of  trade  whirl  and  have  their  way.  The  streets  coil 
like  dusty  bands  around  sharp  corners,  always 
tightening  and  shortening  as  if  nobody  there  had 
time  to  go  far  before  he  reached  the  place  where 
he  was  going. 

Union  Street  cuts  directly  through  the  center  of 
this  district.  It  is  the  business  Broadway  of  Mil- 
lidge  and  extends  the  distance  of  six  blocks,  no 
further,  as  if  Millidge  could  only  afford  sky- 
scrapers, banks  with  Corinthian  pillars,  and  Parthe- 
non fronts  for  this  distance.  You  may  say  that 
Union  Street  represents  the  fat,  bald-headed  row 
of  capitalism  in  the  commercial  drama  of  the  town. 

But  there  is  always  some  little,  lean  scrap  of  a 
man  with  his  hair  still  on,  seated  in  the  bald-headed 
row  everywhere;  a  light,  little  fellow,  hunched  low 
in  his  chair,  indifferent  to  his  prosperous  neighbors, 
watching  the  performance.  Halfway  down  Union 
Street  there  is  just  such  a  notch  in  its  magnificence, 
as  if  poverty  or  perversity  had  taken  a  seat  there, 
and  had  paid  for  it  and  would  remain  there,  letting 
in  the  sky  above  like  a  blue  square  of  plain  provi- 
dence. This  is,  in  fact,  a  low  red-brick  building 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  9 

with  a  tall  office-building  on  either  side.  It  makes 
no  pretensions  toward  having  a  front,  merely  two 
rows  of  worn  brick  that  stick  out  from  the  smooth 
surface  above  the  second  and  last  story  windows 
like  wrinkles  on  an  aged  man's  forehead.  A  door 
from  the  street  opens  into  a  candy-shop  and  soda- 
fount.  A  window  on  either  side  proclaims  these 
refreshments. 

There  is  another  door  let  into  the  wall  at  one 
corner,  narrow  and  low  as  if  it  did  not  care  to  be 
noticed.  This  opens  upon  a  dusty  staircase,  but  it 
is  usually  closed.  There  are  two  windows  in  the 
second  story  overlooking  Union  Street.  Printed  in 
ragged  letters  of  gold  upon  the  small  panes  of  these 
windows  with  due  regard  for  the  millions  between, 
as  if  some  of  the  letters  had  to  step  over  and  skip 
the  space  where  they  belonged,  there  is  this  legend 

MARTIN   PUCKLE 
ATTORNEY    AT    LAW 

When  Adam  named  the  beasts  of  the  field  and 
all  the  other  creatures,  thereby  displaying  an  as- 
tounding originality  and  a  gift  for  nomenclature,  he 
would  undoubtedly  have  bestowed  a  higher-sound- 
ing name  upon  himself  if  he  could  have  known  how 
many  distinguished  sons  there  were  to  be  among 
his  descendants.  Now  it  is  too  late.  In  recent 
centuries  no  man  can  choose  a  finer  name  for  him- 
self than  some  plain  old  Adam  ancestor  left  him 


10  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

without  a  process  of  law  which  is  expensive  and 
likely  to  bring  suspicion  or  contempt  upon  him.  If 
you  are  born  a  Riggs,  say,  even  though  you  take  a 
city,  you  must  remain  Riggs,  the  son  of  old  man 
Riggs,  who  worked  in  a  boiler  factory.  Just  so, 
forty  years  ago  there  was  the  name  of  Puckle  Con- 
struction Company  printed  in  plain  white  letters 
across  the  front  of  this  little  runt  of  a  building. 
And  even  yet  these  letters  are  to  be  faintly  seen 
beneath  a  coat  of  red  paint.  Older  citizens  of 
Millidge  still  recall  this  senior  Puckle,  never  a 
prideful  man,  but  a  busy  one  who  built  most  of  the 
town  that  was  built  in  his  day. 

But  strangers,  not  acquainted  with  the  Puckle 
family  history,  frequently  halt  in  Union  Street, 
squint  at  the  name  on  the  windows,  read  it  aloud, 
which  they  never  do  for  a  hundred  other  names  on 
signs  there.  They  walk  off  with  a  grin  that 
broadens,  repeating  "Puckle!"  They  like  the 
sound  of  it  as  a  hen  likes  her  cluck.  It  tickles  the 
tongue.  It  appeals  to  that  sense  of  humor  often 
excited  by  mere  sounds.  It  recurs  to  them  through- 
out a  day  of  engrossing  affairs;  it  photographs  a 
certain  image,  of  a  long,  thin  nose  bent  like  a  snarl- 
ing "Nay"  above  a  grimacing  mouth;  a  pointed 
chin,  affirmative,  curved  upward  in  a  sort  of  per- 
petual argument  with  this  bickering  nose;  hawk 
eyes,  beetling  brows — an  old  man  in  a  musty  office 
who  looks  at  you  with  the  talons  of  his  mind  and 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  11 

wants  to  know  what  he  can  do  for  you.  Something 
like  that  the  name  "Puckle,"  the  grim,  low  build- 
ing, the  narrow,  deeply  sunken,  closed  door  sug- 
gested, which  only  goes  to  show  how  much  imagi- 
nation can  do  with  a  mere  suggestion. 

One  very  warm  afternoon  in  May  a  man  swung 
briskly  around  the  corner  of  Madison  Hotel  into 
Union  Street.  He  mingled  with  the  crowd  and  was 
not  of  it.  One  block  up  he  paused,  considered  his 
convenience,  stepped  from  the  curb,  and  crossed 
the  street,  walking  with  a  certain  deliberation. 
Trucks  halted;  draymen  sawed  upon  the  bits  of 
their  teams.  The  motorman  of  a  passing  trolley 
clanged  his  bell  irritably,  but  waited  while  the  man 
picked  his  way  delicately  across.  It  was  a  dare, 
and  traffic  took  it.  He  joined  the  crowd  on  the 
other  sidewalk  and  pursued  his  way  with  a  fine  dis- 
regard as  if  he  were  the  only  person  on  this  pave- 
ment. Every  eye  caught  him,  and  dropped  him. 
No  eye  could  miss  him,  and  not  one  could  have 
approved  him. 

He  was  that  fraction  below  medium  height  which 
suggests  shortness  of  stature,  stockily  set  up,  broad 
shoulders.  He  wore  a  putty-colored  coat,  with 
plaits  behind,  belted  in  at  the  waist.  The  skirt 
was  short  and  full.  It  stuck  out,  giving  him  a 
smartly  ruffled  effect  around  the  hips.  The  thing 
actually  suggested  hips.  His  trousers  were  of  an- 
other material,  thinner,  cream-colored.  His  exces- 


12  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

sively  low,  quartered  shoes  were  of  undressed  buck- 
skin, a  rich  golden  brown.  Six  inches  of  fine  white- 
silk  hose  showed  between  them  and  his  trousers, 
which  were  correctly  rolled  at  the  bottom.  His 
linen  was  soft,  snow-white;  black  tie,  black  band 
around  his  stiff  straw  hat. 

All  this,  and  yet  one  had  the  impression  that  he 
wore  something  green,  pastel  shade,  a  mere  touch 
somewhere.  One  looked  for  this  accent,  you  may 
say,  as  he  approached.  It  was  not  there.  This  was 
the  point — you  missed  it  because  it  was  not  there. 
He  came  that  near  a  feminine  trick  of  toilet.  He 
was  a  man  whose  clothes  held  your  attention  as  if 
he  had  been  a  woman,  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
his  manner  of  swinging  along  was  distinctly  mascu- 
line. He  stepped  with  a  stride.  He  was  conscious 
of  himself.  He  had  an  air,  not  of  business,  but 
one  of  personal  satisfaction  and  of  a  strictly  he- 
resolution. 

He  reached  the  small  door  in  the  red-brick  wall, 
thrust  it  open  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at 
"Puckle"  printed  on  the  windows  above,  and  as- 
cended the  staircase.  He  entered  a  room  where  a 
stenographer  and  a  clerk  were  clattering  furiously 
on  typewriters.  The  stenographer  arose  and  made 
a  futile  effort  to  detain  him  as  he  made  for  another 
door  marked  "Private/'  It  was  her  duty  to  do  so. 
He  knew  that,  but  it  was  not  his  business  to  assist 
her  in  the  performance  of  this  duty.  He  opened 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  13 

this  door  as  if  he  were  entering  a  sick-room,  and 
closed  it  softly  behind  him. 

The  stenographer  dropped  into  the  chair  before 
her  machine  with  an  air  of  having  been  overcome. 

"My  goodness!"  she  exclaimed.  "When  did 
Lady  Duff-Gordon  become  a  gentleman's  tailor*?" 

"I  make  a  point  of  not  seeing  him  when  he  comes 
in  here,"  the  clerk  growled. 

"Well,  you  waste  a  point  then,"  she  returned, 
"for  he  never  sees  that  you  don't  see  him,  because 
he  never  sees  either  one  of  us." 

"Can't  bear  a  man  who  dresses  like  that  and 
never  sweats,"  he  said,  mopping  his  face. 

"Perspires,"  she  simpered. 

"Sweat's  the  male  word,"  he  retorted.  "That 
fellow  is  always  as  cool  as  an  ice-pitcher  even  on  a 
hot  day  like  this." 

"And  fresh  as  a  rose — beautiful  complexion," 
she  added. 

"Never  has  done  anything,  and  crazy  about  him- 
self. Why?" 

"Oh,  he  isn't.  It's  the  women,"  she  explained, 
whisking  up  from  behind  her  desk. 

She  fluffed  the  black-taffeta  drapery  about  her 
hips,  crooked  her  elbows,  inflated  her  flat,  narrow, 
little  chest,  bowed  her  back,  made  a  double  chin  by 
an  excessive  rigidity  of  her  neck-muscles,  and 
stepped  across  the  room  in  an  exaggerated  military 
manner. 


14  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"And  the  ladies  all  cry,"  she  croaked,  bringing 
her  heel  down  with  a  thump. 

"As  I  go  by" — thump ! 

"  'Tis  Charles  Augustus  Towne !" 

She  flung  one  slender  leg  out  and  brought  it  back 
heel  to  heel  with  a  manner  that  was  anything  but 
military,  a  perfect  titter  of  genuflection  expressing 
all  the  feminine  emotions  of  hysterical  admiration. 

Most  stenographers  of  the  taffeta,  rouge,  and 
chocolate  type  become  clever  and  finished  actresses 
long  before  they  can  qualify  as  competent  in  their 
chosen  profession.  The  sleaziest  sprig  of  a  girl 
among  them  can  "take  dictation"  with  diabolical 
wit  when  it  comes  to  mimicking  the  voice,  manner, 
and  personal  idiosyncrasies  of  her  employer  and  his 
associates. 

The  clerk  snickered  applause. 

"Comes  from  inheriting  what  he  gets  from 
mother.  Old  lady  thinks  he's  a  doll,"  the  girl  said, 
resuming  herself  and  walking  soberly  back  to  her 
desk. 

"Can't  understand  Puckle's  interest  in  him,"  the 
clerk  complained. 

"None.  He's  interested  in  golf.  It  is  his  only 
human  weakness.  And  Charles  Augustus  plays  a 
good  game." 

At  the  far  end  of  the  next  room  there  was  a  desk 
between  the  two  windows,  a  large  one,  very  hand- 
some, with  nothing  on  it  except  a  wicker  tray  at 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  15 

either  end,  a  bronze  inkstand  in  the  middle,  and  a 
blank  sheet  of  paper,  foolscap.  Above  this  paper 
an  enormous  hairy  fist  appeared,  lifted  at  the  wrist, 
fingers  bunched  around  the  staff  of  a  pen.  You 
noticed  this  heavy  hand  clenched  and  powerful  even 
before  you  did  the  man  behind  the  desk.  It  was, 
you  may  say,  Puckle's  way  of  introducing  himself 
to  strangers  and  of  keeping  friends  at  a  respectful 
distance. 

He  was  at  this  moment  sitting,  as  usuai,  on  the 
small  of  his  back,  his  great  body  curved  inward, 
his  knees  spread  wide  apart,  shoulders  hunched 
nearly  to  the  ears  of  a  terrific  head,  bristling  black 
hair,  bristling  black  brows  that  would  have  met 
above  his  nose  but  for  two  perpendicular  wrinkles 
there  which  divided  them;  round,  implacable  eyes, 
of  that  eagle-gray  which  is  almost  colorless;  lan- 
tern jaws,  a  long  chin,  nose  like  a  battering-ram, 
high  bridge,  nostrils  drawn  back,  making  lines  like 
the  folds  in  a  curtain,  from  the  corners  of  them  to 
the  corners  of  his  mouth.  The  lips  of  this  mouth 
were  closed  so  tight  that  he  seemed  just  to  have 
bitten  something  and  to  be  still  holding  it  between 
his  teeth.  And  over  all  this  a  dark,  temper-red- 
dened skin,  smooth-shaven,  that  rolled  into  two 
thick  wrinkles  across  a  high,  square  forehead.  A 
man  astoundingly  and  forbiddingly  ugly,  not  easily 
loved,  but  compelling  respect  by  some  powerful 
quality  in  this  homeliness. 


16  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

You  understood  at  once  that  he  wore  number 
nine  virtues  and  chose  his  own  vices,  which  is  what 
few  men  have  the  courage  and  originality  to  do. 
They  are  by  that  as  women  are  about  fashions. 
They  usually  look  at  the  other  fellow's  follies  and 
follow  suit. 

He  was  not  young,  probably  past  forty,  and  ob- 
viously a  bachelor.  When  a  man  marries  there  is 
always  a  faint  trace  of  the  adjective  feminine 
about  him,  a  sort  of  self-protecting  circuitousness 
in  all  the  relations  of  life  which  indicates  practice 
in  matrimonial  diplomacy.  You  can  not  mistake 
it,  the  felt  footsteps  of  the  married  man,  or  the 
grinding  sound  of  his  heel,  determined  according  to 
the  kind  of  feminine  adjective  he  has  chosen  to  live 
with.  Another  man  may  be  noisy  or  perfectly  silent 
and  still  proclaim  a  sort  of  neighing  celibacy. 
Puckle  belonged  to  this  class.  No  shade  of  the 
feminine  softened  the  rugged  realism  of  his  per- 
sonality. He  might  prevaricate,  but  he  was  him- 
self a  frightful  truth. 

In  fact  he  was  a  sort  of  awkward  obvious  actor. 
For  example,  he  was  diligent  in  business,  but  no 
one  ever  entered  his  office  and  found  him  at  work. 
He  was  usually  seated  as  now,  hunched  up  behind 
his  desk,  with  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  under  his  hand. 
This  was  a  pose,  meant  to  convey  the  idea  that 
brains  sat  there,  not  a  laborer.  It  was  a  way  he 
had  of  living  down  the  elder  Puckle  who  had  laid 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  IT 

brick  in  Millidge.  This  son  of  a  Puckle  would  not 
be  seen  working,  but  he  was  recognized  as  the  abiest 
lawyer  in  the  city.  He  was  an  omnivorous  lawyer, 
craving  new  and  different  cases  as  a  physician  pre- 
fers patients  with  odd  diseases. 

He  was  interested  in  crime.  Law  was  the 
remedy  for  it,  severely  surgical.  Crime  was  a  form 
of  human  malignancy  which  must  be  removed  from 
the  fair  body  of  society.  If  this  meant  lopping  off 
somebody's  head,  that  was  simply  a  major  opera- 
tion which  he  strongly  advocated.  He  was  not  yet 
rich,  merely  successful,  and  still  coldly,  implacably 
intent  upon  one  thing,  the  chastity,  dignity,  and 
rigorous  application  of  the  law.  "In  the  begin- 
ning," he  had  been  heard  to  say,  "there  was  Law, 
and  Law  created  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  and 
made  man  in  its  own  image.  Therefore  neither 
man,  nor  nature,  nor  any  condition  can  exist  with- 
out obedience  to  the  law  of  its  kind."  A  creed  that 
won  him  no  grace  with  the  churches,  although  he 
contributed  liberally  and  impartially  to  their  sup- 
port. He  was  probably  some  kind  of  a  sacrilegious 
Christian. 

This  was  as  much  as  was  known  of  Puckle  in 
Millidge,  where  he  had  always  lived,  except  purely 
incidental  details,  such  as  that  he  belonged  to  the 
Golf  and  Country  Club,  was  also  a  member  of  the 
Old  Hickory  Club,  and  had  never  been  known  to 


18  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

make  an  after-dinner  speech.  He  sometimes  went 
into  society,  much  as  another  person  might  take  a 
trip  abroad.  He  was  foreign  but  not  alien  among 
polite  and  frivolous  people,  having  only  a  few  man- 
ners of  the  elemental  kind  commonly  known  as  in- 
stincts, and  a  capacity  for  silence  which  was  at 
times  intolerable.  These  did  not  qualify  him  as  a 
dinner  guest,  nor  for  those  lighter  occasions  where 
men  are  supposed  to  be  actively  and  incessantly 
agreeable.  He  was  an  eminent  authority  on  divorce 
laws,  and  never  courted  women.  He  had  been 
heard  to  refer  to  women  as  "light  misdemeanors" 
against  the  peace  of  mankind.  Therefore  women 
resented  him  and  found  him  indignantly  fascinat- 
ing. They  talked  about  him  adversely,  and  always 
agreed  with  whatever  he  said,  provided  he  could 
be  induced  to  say  anything. 

He  sat  now  regarding  Towne  with  a  glazed, 
round-eyed  inattention.  That  gentleman  having 
announced  himself  with  "Hello,  Puckle!"  and  re- 
ceived a  grunt  in  reply,  removed  the  hat  from  his 
well-kept  head.  He  unbuttoned  the  belt  and 
slipped  out  of  his  coat.  He  dropped  into  the  near- 
est chair,  which  was  an  armchair,  tilted  himself  back 
sidewise  in  it,  and  flung  one  elegant  leg  over  the 
arm  of  it.  He  lifted  a  hand  and  smoothed  his  hair 
delicately.  Then  he  opened  a  silver  case,  chose  a 
cigaret,  and  spun  the  case  across  the  desk. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  19 

Puckle  glanced  at  it  and  refused  the  contribu- 
tion. 

Like  every  person  who  makes  a  habit  of  himself, 
his  own  thoughts  and  purposes,  Towne  failed  to 
notice  this  slight  deflection  from  Puckle's  way, 
which  was  to  take  a  cigaret,  light  it,  exhale  the 
smoke,  then  remove  the  cigaret  and  sneer  at  it. 
This  was  his  comment  upon  Towne' s  monogram 
beneath  the  commercial  seal.  He  was  accustomed 
to  regard  the  ruffled  skirt  of  his  coat  the  same  way. 
Towne  liked  it.  He  liked  to  be  the  object  of  any 
kind  of  attention,  but  he  could  not  bear  inattention. 

He  perceived  presently  that  Puckle's  stare  was 
erasing.  Nothing  had  been  said,  but  it  was  time  to 
change  the  subject.  He  did  not  care  to  be  looked 
out  of  countenance  by  a  man  who  did  not  see  him. 

"Nearly  four  o'clock;  ready  to  go1?"  he  said. 

"Not  to-day,  Gussie,"  Puckle  announced.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  addressing  Towne  by  the  femi- 
nine abbreviation  of  his  name. 

"Busy?' 

"No,"  leaning  heavily  back  in  his  chair. 

"All  in?" 

"Practically." 

"Out  last  night?"  Much  as  a  physician  asks  the 
patient  what  he  ate  for  dinner  yesterday. 

Puckle  resented  this  diagnostician's  manner  for 
some  new  and  private  reason.  But  he  admitted 
that  he  had  been  "out,"  and  added  defensively  that 


20  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

so  far  as  he  could  see  everybody  was  "there"  who 
went  anywhere. 

"Too  much  dissipation.  Too  much  work,  no 
play.  Good  game  will  set  you  up.  It's  a  foursome, 
you  know,"  Towne  insisted. 

"Well,  I'm  in  a  lonesome,  onesome  state;  no 
mood  for  golf,"  Puckle  answered  gruffly,  stumbling 
up  from  behind  his  desk  and  offering  his  back  to  the 
other  man's  inquisitive  eyes. 

"I'll  call  Plympton  and  explain,"  Towne  said, 
reaching  for  the  phone. 

"Don't  explain!"  Puckle  growled.  "You  know 
nothing  to  explain.  Just  say  the  game's  off." 

"All  right,"  Towne  agreed,  laughing.  He  leaned 
back,  holding  the  receiver  to  his  ear  and  working 
the  lever  methodically  on  central  while  he  con- 
tinued to  study  Puckle. 

"Explanations  are  iniquitous,  cause  more  trouble 
than  lies.  Every  time  you  explain  you  give  your- 
self away!"  Puckle  went  on. 

"Oh,  I  never  have  to  explain.  My  life  is  an  open 
book,"  Towne  shot  back.  "No  secrets — Hello! 
That  Plympton?  Oh,  Plympton,  this  is  Towne. 
Beastly  luck;  Puckle  can't  get  out  this  afternoon. 
Game's  off.  Yes.  Sorry.  So  long!" 

"That  settles  it,"  he  announced,  replacing  the 
phone  and  settling  back  in  his  chair. 

Puckle  thrust  both  hands  into  his  pockets — 
looked  down  at  his  long  legs.  His  trousers  were 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  21 

hitched  up.  They  were  warped  tightly  around  the 
calves  of  his  legs,  and  they  stuck  out  behind  over 
the  tops  of  his  shoes  like  bells.  He  was  that  kind 
of  man.  His  clothes  hated  him  and  had  the  habit 
of  snarling  on  him.  He  kicked  first  one  foot,  then 
the  other.  The  trousers  gave  up  and  came  down. 
Then  he  walked  to  the  window.  The  inference 
could  have  been  that  he  desired  to  be  alone.  But 
Towne  never  inferred  anything,  however  obvious, 
which  might  be  uncomplimentary  to  himself.  He 
was  thrifty  about  that.  He  waited,  hoping  Puckle 
would  say  something.  He  had  a  woman's  ear  for 
confidences  as  he  had  a  feminine  taste  for  clothes. 
He  could  see  the  black  band  of  Puckle's  cravat  rid- 
ing high  on  his  collar  behind.  The  whole  man 
seemed  to  have  slumped  and  left  it  there,  a  token 
of  defeat.  "Looks  like  the  fallen  hero  of  himself," 
Towne  reflected. 

At  this  moment  Puckle  gave  in.  He  had  a  cer- 
tain contempt  for  Towne,  but  he  had  just  dis- 
covered a  sort  of  declivity  in  himself  which  seemed 
to  reduce  him  somehow  to  Towne's  level.  It  was 
a  thing  that  would  pass,  no  doubt,  but  he  longed  to 
discuss  it  as  a  hysterical  woman  will  count  her 
pulse  and  talk  about  it.  He  turned  and  came  slowly 
back  to  his  desk,  sitting  down  with  the  dejected 
air  of  a  man  who  is  about  to  be  very  sick.  He 
appeared  to  be  suffering  from  a  sort  of  personal 
nausea  of  himself.  He  fumbled  his  pen  from  force 


22  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

of  habit  and  dropped  it.  His  countenance  hung 
like  a  pall.  He  flung  himself  back  in  the  swivel- 
chair,  clasped  his  hands  over  his  head,  crossed  his 
legs  by  way  of  propping  himself. 

"Gussie,  I'm  a  failure!"  he  announced  with  a 
heavy  sigh. 

Towne  regarded  him  attentively,  his  shrewd, 
bright  eyes  filling  and  twinkling  with  secret  intelli- 
gence. His  fat  little  Cupid's  mind  was  very  busy. 
When  you  are  a  sort  of  Ph.D.  of  love  you  recognize 
the  first  wild,  despairing  prescience  of  love  before 
even  the  victim  does. 

"Can't  be  as  bad  as  that.  What's  the  trouble?" 
he  asked  lightly. 

"You  wouldn't  understand,  you  can't  under- 
stand, Gussie,"  Puckle  began.  "You  are  a  butter- 
fly man." 

"Thanks!"  Towne  interrupted  cheerfully. 

"You  have  never  applied  yourself,  mind,  soul, 
and  body,  to  one  thing " 

"That's  all  you  know  about  a  romantic  career," 
Towne  put  in. 

"I  am  speaking  seriously,"  Puckle  went  on  with 
a  heavy  frown. 

This  frown  was  addressed  to  the  opposite  wall, 
eyes  carefully  averted.  Same  old  story.  Love 
cowers  before  the  human  eye.  A  rogue  may  look 
you  squarely  in  the  face  with  your  purse  in  his 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  23 

pocket,  but  Adam  himself  could  not  confess  his 
attachment  to  Eve  with  a  bold  front.  He  sneaked 
it.  His  sons  do  likewise.  They  can  boast  of  pas- 
sion, but  not  of  love.  The  thing  gets  them  like  a 
sorrow  in  a  secret  place. 

Towne  observed  Puckle's  fleeing  eyes  that  took 
to  the  wall-paper,  the  ceiling,  anything  but  the  com- 
radeship of  his  own  investigating  stare.  His  sus- 
picions were  confirmed.  An  inferior  man  may  be 
learned  in  certain  knowledges  which  would  not  in- 
terest a  wise  man. 

"Well,  go  on  speaking  seriously,"  he  urged,  see- 
ing that  Puckle  had  ceased  to  speak  at  all. 

"What  I  mean  is  this,"  Puckle  began,  glad  of 
this  encouragement.  "I  have  given  myself,  my 
time,  everything  to  the  law.  It  has  been  my  idol, 
my  one  purpose  in  life.  And  do  you  know  what 
the  law  has  done  for  me?"  he  demanded. 

"Made  you  the  most  successful  lawyer  in  the 
State,"  Towne  answered  with  cordial  conviction. 

"Yes,  confound  it,  but  that  is  all  I  am,  just  a 
lawyer!"  bitterly. 

He  brought  his  feet  down,  bent  forward  with  his 
elbows  on  the  desk,  and  caught  Towne  with  the 
old  eagle  glance  of  scorn  and  authority. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  law  is1?"  he  exclaimed. 

Towne  wagged  his  head  negatively  by  way  of 
encouragement. 

"Well,  it's  a  principle,  a  formula  for  discipline. 


24  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

It  is  the  strait- jacket  of  the  universe.  And  the 
everlasting  'Thou  shalt  not'  of  mankind.  It  has 
neither  body — nor,  nor  bowels!"  he  stumbled,  as- 
tonished at  the  excellence  of  his  own  use  of  this 
word.  "The  law  is  not  for  you  nor  against  you. 
It's  that  implacable  thing,  justice.  Well,  you  study 
it,  and  practise  it  until  you  become  like  that.  You 
lose  your  human  color,  your  natural  personal  par- 
tialities— mercies,  you  know.  You  learn  to  repress 
your  emotions  and  your  sympathies.  You  become 
a  statute,  a  bundle  of  statutes,  not  a  man.  Every- 
body knows  it.  You  are  left  out  of  the  human 
family!" 

He  smacked  his  huge  hands  together  as  if  he 
dusted  Puckle  off  of  them. 

"Would  any  one  mention  even  the  word  love  to 
me?"  he  went  on,  sneering  at  this  Puckle  of  the 
law.  "Certainly  not.  They  consult  me  on  divorce, 
breach  of  promise.  The  legal  terms  which  bind  it 
and  sunder  it.  I  get  the  criminal  side  of  life.-  I 
have  no  abiding  fellowship  with  virtue  and  order 
among  my  kind.  If  I  defend  virtue  I  must  convict 
somebody  to  do  it.  You  see  what  I  mean?"  he 
concluded,  looking  sternly  against  himself  at  the 
other  man. 

Towne  did  not  see.  He  had  not  followed 
Puckle's  inverted  sentimental  argument.  He  was 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  25 

engaged  in  making  foot-notes  on  Puckle's  symp- 
toms as  they  appeared. 

"I  have  missed  the  warmth  and  kindness  of  liv- 
ing close  to  the  living — home,  family,  affection, 
faith,  confidence,  all  of  them  the  plurals  of  love,'* 
he  exclaimed,  speaking  eloquently  to  the  cast  in 
Towne's  eye. 

Towne  adjusted  himself,  put  down  his  leg,  as- 
sumed a  dignified  posture  and  an  expression  of 
devilish  gravity. 

"Some  lady  has  been  trimming  your  hair, 
Puckle,"  he  announced,  twanging  the  words  through 
his  nose  with  an  upward  grin. 

"Hey?" 

"Samson  went  out  and  shook  himself  and  wist 
not  that  his  strength  had  departed  from  him," 
Towne  repeated.  "Quotation  from  the  Scriptures," 
he  explained,  "very  appropriate  to  your  case. 
Strong  man,  Samson,  until  he  started  philandering. 
Lost  his  hair,  strength  gone.  Then  he  went  out 
and  shook  himself.  That's  what  you've  been  do- 
ing here.  Now,  who  is  the  lady?"  he  demanded 
with  a  broadening  grin. 

Puckle  showed  the  darkening  shade  of  indigna- 
tion. He  turned  from  Towne  with  a  motion  of 
disgust. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  in  love,  if  that  is  what  you  mean," 
he  answered  surlily. 


26  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Towne  retorted  with  a  de- 
risive chuckle. 

It  is  a  singular  fact,  but  well  established,  that 
love,  which  is  probably  the  most  acute  form  of 
anguish,  suspense,  and  despair  known  to  man,  in- 
variably excites  mirth  rather  than  sympathy  in  the 
other  fellow.  The  more  one  endeavors  to  preserve 
the  sanctity  of  his  sorrow  the  more  his  friends  re- 
joice in  his  discomfort.  He  imagines  no  one  sus- 
pects his  condition,  only  to  discover  that  he  is  the 
comic  supplement  of  love  which  everybody  is  read- 
ing with  gales  of  laughter.  It  is  a  monstrous  per- 
version of  delicacy.  Puckle  felt  all  this.  It  was 
especially  unjust  in  his  case,  since  he  was  innocent. 

"You  misunderstand  me  entirely,  Gussie,"  he 
came  back  to  defend  himself.  "It  is  simply  that  a 
man  realizes  after  a  while  what  he  is,  what  he 
missed  being — and  having.  You  go  your  way  for 
years  besotted  with  your  work,  or  whatever  it  is, 
then  suddenly  you  hear  something,  or — er,  you 
meet  a  woman,  merely  a  glimpse  of  her,  you  under- 
stand. And  it  comes  over  you,  the  vision  of  the 
home  you  might  have  had,  the  wife,  those  soft,  kind 
things." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Towne  agreed. 

Puckle  looked  at  him  and  mistook  the  gravity  of 
his  expression. 

"Now,  I've  had  an  experience  like  that,"  he 
went  on. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  27 

"Recently?" 

"Quite  recently.  I  have  seen  the  very  eyes  of 
love,  Gussie!" 

Towne  bowed  appreciatively,  implying  that  he 
could  understand  that. 

"Girl,  you  know,  must  have  been  born  about  the 
time  I  married  the  law.  Never  saw  her  before. 
Don't  know  her  name.  But  she  felt  as  near  to  me 
as  the  rib  in  my  side;  not  kin,  but  close,"  Puckle 
halted.  He  expected  a  raise.  You  do  when  you 
say  a  neat  thing  like  that.  He  got  it. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Towne  answered  briefly. 

He  repressed  the  desire  to  laugh.  Sinners  are 
never  really  reverent,  but  they  sometimes  preserve 
the  appearance  of  seriousness  before  a  well- 
defended  altar. 

Puckle  went  on  speaking  with  the  animation  a 
prose  man  sometimes  shows  who  has  the  sense  but 
not  the  lyrical  language  of  poetry. 

"The  whole  place  was  crowded;  a  lot  of  women 
there  whom  I  knew,  lot  of  men.  You  know  how  it 
is  at  one  of  those  big  affairs.  Jam  and  jargon, 
music  and  dancing,  melting  pot  of  society.  She 
was  there,  not  talking,  sitting  alone,  very  primly 
erect  against  the  wall,  as  if  she  had  been  painted  on 
it  a  thousand  years  ago;  dim  and  beautiful  and  still 
like  that.  Meek  little  feet  crossed,  knees  together. 
Hands  folded;  little  hands  that  looked  empty  and 
wishful.  You  know  about  women's  clothes.  I 


28  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

don't.  But  I  remember  the  color  of  that  girl's 
frock.  It  was  blue,  not  bright,  but  hard  and  clear. 
And  every  time  the  light  streamed  through  the  mov- 
ing crowd  on  her  the  gold  in  it  glistened.  Ever 
see  a  dress  like  that"?" 

Towne  had,  many  times,  but  he  denied  it.  This 
was  no  time  to  meddle  with  Puckle's  exclusiveness 
about  feminine  drapery. 

"Every  fold  in  it  was  stiff,  made  angles  of  light, 
up  to  her  shoulders.  They  were  like  a  very  young 
girl's.  White  with  delicate  gray  shadows  in  the 
hollow  beneath  her  throat. 

"I  had  just  entered  the  room  and  drifted  into  a 
circle  of  people  waiting  for  the  dance  to  begin, 
when  I  first  caught  sight  of  that  frock  and  those 
little  wishful  hands  folded.  But  I  could  not  see 
her  face.  Then  somebody  moved  and  I  saw  her. 
Gussie! — "  he  exclaimed  and  paused.  Language 
is  frequently  a  very  awkward  and  feeble  thing. 

"Pretty?"  Towne  suggested,  helpfully. 

Puckle  looked  his  scorn  of  this  cheap,  little, 
freckled,  pugnosed  adjective. 

"You  may  have  seen  something  so  delicately  and 
satisfyingly  perfect  that — ineffable  is  the  word  I 
want!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  girl's  face  surpassed 
mere  beauty  so  much  as  that.  You  wanted  to  say 
Thank  God !'  at  the  sight  of  her !" 

Towne  suppressed  a  groan. 

"Her  hair  was  dark,  had  lights  in  it  like  the  gold 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  29 

in  her  dress.  Straight,  drawn  back  from  her  brow 
as  if  she  knew  nothing  to  conceal.  When  you  looked 
at  her  you  could  not  think  of  her  face  one  feature 
at  the  time.  It  was  just  pale,  clear  sweetness  with 
a  seal  on  it;  as  fair  as  that,  not  the  shadow  of  a 
smile  on  her  lips.  You  have  seen  the  gravity  of 
perfect  innocence.  Well,  it  was  like  that:  her  look 
which  did  not  see  you,  but  beyond  you,  for  some- 
thing she  wished.  That  is  what  I  am  trying  to  tell 
you.  She  had  the  eyes  of  faith  and  love.  She  was 
like  a  fresh  young  pilgrim  sitting  before  a  wayside 
shrine  telling  her  beads  for  love  in  that  crowded 
ballroom!"  he  concluded. 

"What  happened*?"  Towne  asked. 

"Nothing,"  Puckle  answered.  "I  tried  to  get 
around  that  circle  of  babbling  fools  nearer  her. 
Well,  I  could  not  do  it.  I  discovered  that  every 
other  man  was  trying  to  do  the  same  thing.  We 
were  all  talking  to  the  other  women  and  thinking 
of  that  girl !" 

"She  bluffed  you,"  Towne  announced. 

"Oh,  she  bluffed  the  whole  bunch  of  us  if  you 
want  to  put  it  that  way,"  Puckle  admitted.  "It 
was  queer,  I  tell  you,  nobody  asking  or  passing  her 
name  around  as  they  always  do  when  a  visiting 
girl  shows  up.  And  there  she  sat,  the  secret  image 
in  every  man's  mind.  Couldn't  stand  it  myself; 
I  came  away,  left  her  sitting  there  just  as  I  had 
seen  her  first;  I  was  afraid  she  would  move  or  smile 


30  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

at  somebody,  do  some  little  feminine  thing  that 
might  destroy — er — the  sense  I  had  of  her." 

"You  were  jealous!" 

"For  her,  yes;  not  of  her.  She  was  too  far  re- 
moved for  that.  She  was  so  innocent  of  what  was 
going  forward  about  her,  so  unconsciously  sacred  to 
herself.  A  little  token  of  something  every  man 
wishes,  new,  with  the  seal  of  her  thoughts  un- 
broken. See  what  I  mean?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  Towne  answered,  regarding  him 
with  mirthful  eyes. 

He  had  gone  late  to  this  same  ball.  He  had  seen 
the  girl.  He  knew  all  about  her,  made  it  his  pleas- 
ure to  find  out.  He  supposed  every  man  there  did 
except  Puckle.  But  for  good  and  sufficient  reasons 
he  did  not  share  this  information  with  him.  He 
did  not  care  to  be  bothered  with  Puckle  in  this 
affair.  He  felt  reasonably  sure  it  would  be  an 
affair. 

"You  asked  me  just  now  what  happened,"  Puckle 
began  thoughtfully.  "I  can  tell  you  exactly  what 
will  happen.  That  girl  is  waiting  for  just  one 
thing,  love — not  yours  nor  mine  nor  any  man's, 
but  for  that  in  her  own  heart.  She  will  marry  for 
love,  not  for  happiness  nor  fortune  nor  anything 
else.  And  she  will  accomplish  what  loving  can 
accomplish  for  somebody,  not  herself." 

"Dark  future  you  are  planning  for  her." 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  31 

"Nothing  will  ever  be  dark  for  her.  She  is  her- 
self an  effulgence,"  Puckle  replied. 

Towne  suddenly  discovered  that  he  had  been  in- 
tolerably bored  for  half  an  hour.  He  suffered  from 
this  complaint.  Almost  anything  palled  on  him. 
Puckle  was  a  fool.  Still  his  dull,  stumbling,  rap- 
turous interpretation  of  this  girl  excited  his  interest. 
The  comedy  of  love  was  his  chief  amusement.  He 
would  call  Sarah  Crombie  on  the  phone  and  make 
an  engagement.  Pick  up  Tovey  for  Sarah. 

He  looked  at  the  phone  on  Puckle' s  desk.  He 
was  tempted  to  call  now.  Be  a  good  joke  on 
Puckle.  Then  he  thought  better  of  it.  These  crass 
fellows  could  not  take  a  joke. 

He  stood  up,  slipped  on  his  coat,  preened  himself 
unconscious  of  the  other's  sneering  gaze. 

"Well,  so  long,  old  man,"  he  said,  taking  his  hat 
and  making  for  the  door.  "Hope  you  pull  through. 
I've  had  it.  Acute  stage  doesn't  last.  Take  a 
bracer  and  buck  up." 

"Darn  him!"  Puckle  growled  as  the  door  closed 
behind  him.  He  had  always  despised  Towne  in  a 
kindly  fashion.  It  was  as  near  as  he  could  come 
to  liking  him.  Now  he  experienced  a  sickening 
revulsion,  a  sort  of  moral  animus,  not  unmixed  with 
disgust  for  himself.  He  had  confided  in  this  in- 
ferior person.  Virtue  had  gone  out  of  him. 

You  never  know  a  man  face  to  face  with  him. 
His  presence  defends  him.  But  let  him  remove 


32  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

that  and  your  mind  frequently  pursues  him  as  a 
dog  barks.  You  discover  that  you  hate  him,  or  that 
you  like  him  when  you  thought  he  was  not  agree- 
able personally.  This  is  the  law  of  backbiting. 
The  worst  of  it  is  done  in  silence.  And  nothing 
can  stop  it.  Because  the  minute  a  man's  back  is 
turned  you  know  things  about  him  that  you  could 
not  know  so  long  as  he  was  there  to  defend  him- 
self with  his  eyes  upon  you.  The  human  eye,  even 
the  meekest  eye,  is  a  sword  ever  on  guard. 


CHAPTER  II 

If  you  want  to  see  changeable  weather,  watch  a 
man  in  love  who  has  not  been  in  love  long  enough 
nor  often  enough  to  endure  his  own  sensations. 
Puckle  had  passed  through  more  emotional  crises 
since  the  night  before  than  in  his  whole  previous 
life.  He  had  had  a  vision  of  love,  entrancing;  he 
had  experienced  the  despair  of  a  rigid  self-examina- 
tion. He  had  relaxed  into  confidences,  a  weak- 
ness foreign  to  his  nature.  Finally  he  hated 
Towne,  who  was  not  worthy  to  be  hated.  What 
was  the  matter1?  He  was  irritable,  very  tired.  He 
bent  his  head  and  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair. 
Then  suddenly  he  thought  of  something,  as  a  man 
remembers  a  valve  to  relieve  pressure.  He  thrust 
his  hand  under  the  edge  of  his  desk  and  pressed  a 
button.  He  glared  at  the  door.  And  pressed  the 
button  again. 

"Smalley,"  he  exclaimed  as  the  clerk  entered, 
"I've  been  waiting  an  hour  for  that  brief.  Is  it 
ready?' 

"Almost,  sir;  I  should  have  finished,  but — " 
Smalley  began  defensively. 

"I  must  have  it  before  I  leave  the  office,"  Puckle 

interrupted.    "Send  Miss  Smith  in." 

33 


34  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"She  leaves  at  five  o'clock,"  Smalley  reminded 
him. 

Puckle  frowned.  That  girl  purposely  evaded  tak- 
ing dictation  in  the  afternoons  whenever  it  was 
possible  to  do  so.  Then  he  perceived  that  Smalley 
was  still  standing  with  the  troubled  air  of  a  man 
who  has  an  unpleasant  duty  to  perform. 

"There  is  a  gentleman  waiting  to  see  you,  sir," 
he  announced,  catching  Puckle' s  eye. 

"Did  you  tell  him  I  never  see  any  one  after  four 
o'clock1?"  Puckle  demanded  fiercely. 

"I  did,  but  he  said  you  would  see  him." 

"I  will.not !"  Puckle  exclaimed,  raising  his  voice. 

Smalley  rolled  his  eyes  toward  the  door,  merely 
intimating  thus  the  carrying  quality  of  Puckle's 
jury- voice. 

"Wait,  Smalley,"  he  said  in  lower  tones  as  the 
clerk  was  about  to  withdraw. 

He  raised  his  forefinger  and  aimed  shakily  at  him. 

"If  any  one,  any  one"  he  repeated  with  emphasis, 
"asks  for  me  after  four  o'clock,  I  am  not  here,  I 
am  out.  I  never  am  in.  Get  that*?" 

Smalley  got  it,  giving  in  return  the  look  of  de- 
pleted dignity  a  subordinate  sometimes  casts  upon 
his  employer  by  way  of  rebuke. 

"Wait,"  Puckle  growled.     "Who  is  he?" 

"Mr.  Windham  Cutmore,"  Smalley  answered 
briefly. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  35 

"Send  him  in,"  Puckle  conceded  mildly,  which 
the  clerk  took  as  a  sort  of  apology  to  himself,  the 
kind  Puckle  frequently  made.  But  it  was  not. 

A  swift  and  indefinable  change  passed  over  him 
the  instant  Smalley  withdrew.  The  acting  people 
do  when  they  are  alone,  and  often  in  the  briefest 
possible  time,  frequently  surpasses  the  art  of  a  play- 
wright to  produce  in  hours  of  hard  work.  He  was 
no  longer  Puckle  of  the  fist  and  glittering  eye,  nor 
the  fallen  hero  of  himself  in  a  sadder  mood.  This 
was  Puckle,  the  son  of  old  man  Puckle,  pleased  to 
meet  you,  girded  up,  best  foot  foremost,  awkward 
and  flattered,  watching  the  door  with  a  certain 
polite  anticipation. 

A  man  entered.  It  was  as  if  elegance,  sobriety, 
and  high  honor  had  come  in. 

He  was  young,  at  the  very  sunrise  of  manhood, 
say  twenty-five.  Tall,  with  the  thin,  lean  grace  of 
youth.  Much  too  fair,  as  sometimes  happens  with 
human  stock  selectively  bred  until  it  loses  the 
deeper,  richer  coloring  of  coarser,  stronger  men.  He 
had  a  close-lipped  mouth,  drawn  in  and  tightened 
at  the  comers,  finely  turned,  as  if  he  had  inherited 
it  from  a  family  portrait.  Large  eyes,  gray  with 
unexpected  yellow  lights  in  them;  not  bright,  calm, 
slow-moving  beneath  heavy  lids. 

But  this  fairness  and  slenderness  was  deceptive. 
It  was  the  girlish  delicacy  of  his  skin,  the  sober 
fineness  of  his  clothes  that  concealed  his  real  quality. 


36  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

If  he  had  been  weathered  and  tanned  you  must  have 
recognized  him.  You  would  have  known  that  he 
was  not  delicate,  but  resilient.  That  he  was  still 
unsettled,  all  these,  but  not  assembled.  Capable  of 
performing  the  highest  deeds,  but  easily  provoked 
and  dangerous,  quietly  and  secretly  bold.  In  short, 
a  gentle  and  agreeable  madman,  innocent  of  him- 
self and  singularly  attractive. 

"Hello,  Cutmore;  glad  to  see  you!"  Puckle 
greeted  him  cordially,  having  risen  and  advanced  to 
grasp  the  hand  of  his  visitor. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Puckle,"  Cutmore  re- 
turned. 

No  one  could  have  distinguished  whether  the 
prefixed  title  of  "Mister"  was  designed  as  a  barrier 
or  an  acknowledgment  of  some  superiority  in  Puckle. 
Your  thoroughbred  has  a  dozen  ways  of  making 
you  feel  very  similar  to  his  hired  man,  respectable 
but  different,  when  you  are  more  than  respectable 
and  really  superior  to  him  in  everything  but  breed- 
ing, which  was  not  his  achievement,  but  his  in- 
heritance. 

Puckle  felt  this  without  being  aware  of  how 
much  he  granted.  He  wanted  Cutmore  to  be  seated 
in  a  tone  of  voice  which  implied  that  this  act  would 
give  him  a  very  great  deal  of  pleasure.  He  went 
back  to  his  own  chair,  erected  himself  in  it  carefully, 
with  no  slouching  in  his  pose  which  was  habitual  to 
him.  He  offered  Cutmore  a  cigar.  Said  the  same 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  3T 

things  a  man  usually  says  about  the  quality  of  his 
cigars — not  very  good,  regretfully. 

They  lighted  these  cigars,  exhaled  the  smoke- 
So  far,  so  good.  But  the  exchange  of  remarks,  the 
mere  tentacles  of  conversation  to  which  smoking  is 
the  preface,  did  not  transpire.  They  looked  at  each 
other.  Cutmore's  measuring  glance  settled  upon 
Puckle  with  a  sort  of  strange  determination,  as  if 
he  were  predicating  something  with  this  stare  which 
was  brief,  but  long  enough  to  be  disturbing.  Puckle 
wondered  what  had  brought  this  man  to  his  office. 
Their  acquaintance  was  purely  professional,  not 
personal. 

"Mr.  Puckle,"  Cutmore  began  as  if  in  answer  to 
this  unspoken  question,  "I  have  come  to  see  you 
on  a  matter  of  business." 

Puckle  nodded,  not  encouragingly,  but  as  if  he 
bowed  "Amen!"  to  the  word  business.  Meaning 
that  if  this  were  the  case  he  was  on  his  own  ground, 
not  Cutmore's.  Cutmore  had  never  been  associated 
in  his  mind  with  the  vulgar  vicissitudes  of  business. 

"The  fact  is,  I  want  to  make  a  change,"  he  said. 

Puckle  thought  that  was  highly  probable,  hard- 
ening his  eye.  "Making  changes"  had  been  Cut- 
more's method  of  rapid  transit  from  one  occupation 
to  another,  some  of  them  not  even  remotely  con- 
nected with  business. 

He  had  graduated  at  the  head  of  his  class  in  the 


38  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

State  university.  Then  he  had  taken  the  course  in 
law  at  Harvard.  This  was  in  the  days  when 
Colonel  Cutmore,  his  father,  was  the  capital  letter 
of  the  Millidge  bar,  merely  by  the  prestige  of  his 
presence,  not  that  he  was  distinguished  so  much  for 
his  success  in  this  profession  as  he  was  for  the  prodi- 
gality with  which  he  spent  the  remnants  of  a  con- 
siderable inheritance.  He  was  the  one  man  in 
Millidge  who  could  be  depended  upon  to  "go  on" 
any  other  gentleman's  note  who  asked  the  favor. 
Also  he  could  be  depended  upon  later  by  the  credi- 
tor of  the  said  gentelman  to  pay  these  notes  when 
they  fell  due  like  frost  on  the  debtors.  This  made 
him  popular,  won  for  him  the  title  of  being  the 
"very  soul  of  honor,"  and  reduced  him  to  com- 
parative poverty. 

Young  Windham  Cutmore  acquitted  himself 
genteelly  in  law  at  Harvard,  altho  a  vague  report 
reached  Millidge  that  he  was  "wild."  No  one  knew 
whether  this  came  from  the  suspicion  that  he  had 
sowed  a  few  wild  oats  out  of  the  colonel's  pockets 
or  from  the  later  well-established  fact  that  he  had 
become  an  amateur  lightweight  pugilist  of  note  in 
the  sporting  circles  of  the  university.  In  any  case 
his  friends,  remembering  his  frail  physique,  did  not 
accept  the  latter  report  with  serious  conviction. 
"Windy"  had  probably  learned  to  spar  a  bit. 

In  the  Summer  after  he  returned  from  Harvard 
and  before  he  had  actually  gone  into  partnership 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  39 

with  his  father,  the  old  colonel  had  a  stroke  and 
passed  away. 

Young  Cutmore  immediately  changed  his  plans. 
He  cast  the  ready-made  practise  of  his  father  to 
the  four  winds  and  entered  journalism.  This  was 
the  first  intimation  Millidge  had  that  Windham 
would  not  stay  "put."  He  confirmed  it  during  the 
next  five  years.  He  made  a  brilliant  but  brief  suc- 
cess on  the  Millidge  Ledger.  Presently  he  was 
made  city  editor  of  this  paper. 

But  there  was  no  real  reason  for  applying  him- 
self ruthlessly  night  and  day  to  this  business.  He 
had  proved  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  he  could 
be  an  editor  and  a  good  one.  He  resigned  like 
lightning  from  the  Ledger. 

He  had  already  become  interested  in  one  of  the 
oldest  fraternal  orders.  He  devoted  himself  with  a 
sort  of  silent  enthusiasm  to  studying  and  taking 
degrees  in  this  order.  The  history  that  faded  into 
tradition  and  the  glamour  of  ancient  days  that 
clung  to  the  mystical  rites  and  ceremonies  fasci- 
nated him.  He  retired  to  the  mountain  forty  miles 
above  Millidge,  lived  alone  in  a  hut  for  a  year,  let 
his  beard  grow,  and  studied  rites  and  mysteries.  He 
was  determined  to  accomplish  an  occult  relation  to 
the  past.  In  fact,  there  was  no  past.  Everything 
was  the  present  with  God  and  the  immortal  soul  of 
a  man.  He  cultivated  immortality;  that  is  to  say, 


40  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

a  mystical  frame  of  mind.  This  is  not  a  healthy 
occupation  when  you  are  still  in  the  flesh.  Cutmore 
dwindled  into  a  weird-looking  specter  on  his  moun- 
tain. 

But  about  the  time  his  friends  in  Millidge  gave 
him  up  as  hopelessly  queer,  America  entered  the 
Great  War.  Cutmore  at  once  resigned  from  his 
mountain,  shaved,  and  volunteered  as  a  private, 
altho  with  the  military  training  he  had  had  at  the 
State  university  he  might  easily  have  negotiated  a 
commission.  Then  with  the  energy  of  an  ambitious 
youth  in  a  spelling  class  who  is  determined  to  turn 
down  the  other  fellows  until  he  reaches  the  top  of 
that  class,  Cutmore  transferred  from  one  branch  of 
the  service  to  another,  having  started  in  an  ambu- 
lance company,  until  he  reached  the  Signal  Corps 
of  a  regiment  that  went  to  France  in  July  of  1917. 
The  "top"  in  those  quickening  days  of  the  strife 
was  out  of  training-camps  and  to  France  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment.  By  great  good  fortune, 
Cutmore' s  regiment  was  attached  to  the  British 
forces  then  fighting  in  Belgium.  Here  he  saw  active 
service  and  acquitted  himself  with  distinction  ac- 
cording to  reports  from  his  comrades.  But  no  one 
in  Millidge  heard  directly  from  him.  He  had  been 
disconnected.  He  neither  wrote  nor  craved  letters. 
Finally  his  name,  appeared  among  those  "severely 
wounded"  in  the  casualty  lists  published  daily  in 
this  country. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  41 

Three  months  later  he  appeared  in  Millidge  walk- 
ing with  a  slight  limp.  He  had  been  invalided 
home,  still  fit  for  civil  life,  but  no  longer  fit  for 
military  service.  This  was  in  June  of  1918. 

He  was  the  only  man  sent  from  Millidge  to  fight 
in  France  who  could  not  be  interviewed  nor  in- 
duced to  discuss  his  experience  as  a  soldier  there. 
He  gave  the  impression  of  being  a  casualty  still,  of 
having  some  deeper  wound  than  that  of  the  flesh 
which  did  not  heal  and  which  he  covered  with  a 
cool  reticence. 

Within  one  week  after  his  return  he  opened  an 
office  and  began  the  practice  of  law.  He  practiced 
it  serenely  and  without  interruption  of  clients, 
merely  reading  it.  But  now  and  then  when  he  had 
a  case  in  court  he  gained  it.  On  these  occasions  he 
showed  unusual  ability.  The  impression  among 
the  elder  lawyers  of  the  Millidge  bar  was  that  he 
had  a  future  in  the  profession  if  he  would  apply 
himself  and  stick  to  it.  Martin  Puckle  shared  this 
opinion,  but  he  did  not  believe  Cutmore  would 
"stick  to  anything." 

This  young  man's  various  performances  were 
passing  now  like  the  reel  of  a  highly  dramatic  pic- 
ture through  Puckle' s  memory. 

"What  kind  of  a  change  do  you  expect  to  make?" 
he  asked  dryly  after  a  perceptible  pause. 

"Well,  I  want  really  to  begin  the  practice  of 
law,"  Cutmore  told  him. 


42  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"Ah!"  Puckle  said. 

"I  have  read  law,  studied  it,  I  know  it,  but  I  have, 
well,  practically  no  practice,"  Cutmore  explained, 
not  apologetically,  but  as  a  simple  statement  of 
facts. 

"What  I  need  is  clients,"  he  added  briefly. 

Puckle  was  thinking  like  a  house  afire;  his  mind 
was  running  around  Cutmore,  trying  to  locate  the 
purpose  of  these  confidences.  What  he  said  was, 
"Oh,  well,  clients  will  come;  requires  time  and 
patience  to  build  up  a  practice." 

"But  I  must  begin  at  once.  It  is  imperative," 
Cutmore  explained. 

Then  with  no  warning,  without  even  shifting  his 
gaze  from  Puckle's  face,  he  said,  "It  has  occurred 
to  me  that  I  should  go  in  with  an  older  man  who 
has  an  established  practice.  Someone  like  your- 
self." 

Puckle  repressed  a  snort.  He  began  to  hunch 
up,  his  neck  went  down  between  his  shoulders,  his 
hairy  fist  went  out  like  the  paw  of  a  mastiff  and 
rested  on  the  desk  before  him.  He  could  see  him- 
self taking  this — this  elegant  young  wildcat  in  as 
a  partner! 

Cutmore  took  no  notice  of  this  change  in  Puckle's 
manner.  He  went  on  with  what  he  had  to  say, 
which  was  a  good  deal,  and  in  the  manner  and  tone 
of  a  man  who  starts  out  with  the  advantage  in  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  43 

argument.  At  six  o'clock  he  was  still  talking.  He 
covered  the  entire  situation.  He  referred  to  his 
own  qualifications  neatly,  modestly,  but  with  pro- 
found assurance.  He  had  not  done  much  so  far; 
he  admitted  this  without  regret,  much  as  a  man 
would  refer  to  his  savings.  All  of  his  energies  had 
been  dammed  up  until  this  time.  He  supposed 
Puckle  knew  how  hard  a  man  like  that  would  work 
when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  apply  himself. 

Puckle  knew  no  such  thing.  He  did  not  believe 
it;  but  Cutmore  regarded  him  so  fearlessly  and 
affirmatively  that  he  was  compelled  to  make  some 
sort  of  guttural  sound,  not  designed  for  approval, 
but  Cutmore  accepted  it  that  way. 

Well,  he  said,  he  had  decided  to  do  that;  devote 
himself  absolutely  to  the  law,  make  a  success  of  it. 

Puckle  underwent  violent  changes  of  mind  and 
temper.  At  first  the  whole  proposition  appeared 
to  him  preposterous.  He  was  on  the  point  of  inter- 
rupting Cutmore  more  than  once  merely  to  say  that 
he  never  had  and  would  not  entertain  the  idea  of  a 
partner.  He  tried  to  formulate  the  terms,  polite 
and  decisive,  in  which  he  would  convey  this  infor- 
mation. But  he  had  to  watch  Cutmore,  who  seemed 
to  be  closing  in  on  him.  Now  and  then  he  inad- 
vertently paid  compliments  to  this  old  bachelor  bear 
of  the  Millidge  bar.  To  be  associated  with  a  law- 
yer of  his  ability  and  distinction  would  be  a  tre- 
mendous honor.  But  he  thought  he  could  measure 


44  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

up  to  it;  in  fact  he  had  no  doubt  about  that.  This 
was  apparent  to  Puckle,  the  inadvertence  of  the 
compliment;  the  flavor  was  enhanced  for  him.  But, 
good  Lord,  taking  a  young  whelp,  with  a  whelp's 
record  in  with  him,  was  unthinkable.  Law  was  a 
serious  business,  not  to  be  dropped  like  a  hot 
potato ! 

This  was  the  dying  gasp  of  Puckle's  positive  op- 
position. He  began  to  entertain  the  idea.  He  ad- 
mitted to  himself  that  he  was  tired,  that  he  needed 
rest,  and  that  under  present  conditions  any  relaxa- 
tion was  practically  impossible.  No  one  in  the 
office  to  hold  things  down  if  he  went  away.  He 
had  not  had  a  vacation  in  years.  Never  had  had 
one  since  he  began  the  practice  of  law. 

Another  thing  occurred  to  him.  The  Cutmore 
prestige  in  Millidge  was  very  strong.  It  represented 
the  older,  reserved,  best  people,  who  protected  their 
wealth  quietly  behind  the  doors  of  law  offices,  not 
in  the  open  courts.  He  had  never  had  that  kind 
of  business.  His  clients  were  of  another  class. 
After  all,  it  might  not  be  such  a  bad  idea,  taking 
Cutmore  in;  still  there  were  Cutmore's  moods  and 
tangents  to  consider.  Any  contract  between  them 
must  cover  that  contingency.  He  would  not  stand 
for  his  temperamental  antics !  He  would  make  that 
clear  to  him  at  the  start. 

All  this  passed  through  his  mind  while  Cutmore 
was  talking  in  his  frank  and  leisurely  manner,  not 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  45 

anxious,  but  determined.  At  the  moment  when  he 
allowed  himself  to  visualize  the  sign  above  his  win- 
dows of  Puckle  &  Cutmore,  he  realized  suddenly 
that  Cutmore  had  ceased  to  talk.  He  had  ascended 
into  a  cool,  calm  silence. 

Puckle  glanced  at  him  inquiringly.  Cutmore  ac- 
tually showed  signs  of  departure.  He  stood  up, 
returning  Puckle' s  gaze  from  that  altitude. 

"I  shall  connect  myself  at  once  with  some  firm 
in  the  city,"  he  said  mildly,  but  with  a  look  that 
seemed  to  have  found  Puckle  wanting.  "I  came 
here  first  to  discuss  a  partnership  with  you  for  the 
reasons  I  have  mentioned ;  but  I  am  not  so  sure  after 
all  that  it  would  prove  the  best  arrangement. 
You " 

"Sit  down,  Cutmore,  sit  down!"  Puckle  inter- 
rupted. "I've  been  listening,  and  I  am  interested. 
You  sprung  this  thing  on  me  quite  by  surprise. 
Never  thought  seriously  of  a  partnership,  but  the 
idea  appeals  to  me.  Sit  down,  man;  we  will  talk 
it  over  as  a  purely  business  proposition." 

The  idea  had  suddenly  occurred  to  him  if  this 
young  man  should  actually  settle  down  to  law  it 
would  be  wiser  to  have  him  as  a  partner  than  the 
other  fellow's  partner. 

Cutmore  resumed  his  seat,  but  not  wholly,  nearer 
the  edge  of  his  chair,  implying  the  probable  brevity 
of  his  presence  in  that  place. 

Puckle  leaned  far  over  his  desk.     He  took  up 


46  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

this  partnership  and  handled  it  delicately  as  if,  with 
his  eye  on  Cutmore,  it  might  come  apart  before  he 
could  weld  it.  He  approached  certain  possible 
difficulties  with  as  light  a  tread.  For  instance,  was 
Cutmore  sure  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
cleave  to  the  law  and  the  law  only  so  long  as  he 
lived? 

Oh,  yes,  he  had  made  up  his  mind. 

Was  he  sure  his  kind  of  mind  would  remain  firm 
to  this  purpose? 

Oh,  yes,  with  a  cryptic  smile  which  Puckle  dis- 
covered later  meant  that  something  outside  of  mind 
had  formed  and  sealed  this  resolution. 

It  was  not  until  the  terms  of  the  contract  were 
under  discussion  that  Cutmore  took  him  up  with 
this. 

"I  must  be  assured  of  an  income  sufficient  to 
maintain  a  married  man." 

Puckle  stared  at  him. 

"Bless  me,  man,  I  did  not  know  you  were  mar- 
ried !"  Puckle  exclaimed. 

"Not  yet,  but  I  expect  to  be  soon." 

This  was  the  natural,  sensible  thing  to  do,  Puckle 
told  him.  His  mistake  had  been  in  remaining  a 
bachelor.  Impoverished — er — a  man,  not  to  have 
a  home  and  a  wife,  missed  the  great  conservative 
influence  of  love,  that  kind  of  thing. 

He  leaned  back  and  repressed  a  sigh.  He  was 
no  more  than  a  comma's  pause  from  offering  his 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  47 

confidences  for  the  second  time  that  afternoon  when 
Cutmore  interrupted. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you  that  my  marriage  is  a — con- 
tingency," he  said. 

"Contingency*?"  Puckle  repeated,  blinking. 

"I  am  not  even  engaged  to  be  married  yet,"  he 
admitted. 

Puckle  considered  this  grave  young  man  who 
could  plot  matrimony  on  a  cold  collar. 

"But  I  have  seen  her,  the  girl,  I  mean,"  Cutmore 
added  without  the  faintest  embarrassment,  merely 
implying  that  his  contemplated  marriage  was  a 
reasonably  sure  thing. 

"You  have  seen  her,  only  seen  her?"  Puckle 
asked,  his  voice  and  manner  expressing  both  doubt 
and  curiosity. 

"On  the  level,  that  is  as  far  as  it  has  gone  yet." 

"Are  you  the  only  man  who  has  seen  her*?" 
Puckle  demanded.  It  was  none  of  his  business,  but 
he  wanted  to  know.  Especially  he  wanted  to  know 
if  this  was  another  of  Cutmore's  vagaries. 

No,"  Cutmore  answered,  "I  think  there  were  at 
least  a  hundred  men  who  saw  her  about  the  time  I 
did.  Only  girl  there  any  of  us  really  saw.  Lot  of 
others,  ball,  you  know.  I  saw  her  come  in,  stranger 
there,  sat  down  quietly  just  within  the  door;  not 
equal  to  that  sort  of  thing,  different.  She  was  sit- 
ting there  becalmed,  very  prim  and  erect,  removed, 


48  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

not,  stupid,  like  the — er — gospel  of  love  in  every 
man's  heart.  You  understand,  a  man  can't  talk 
about  a  thing  like  that" — this  to  Puckle,  who  had 
talked  about  something  very  similar  to  Towne — 
Towne  of  all  people! 

"I  should  not  have  mentioned  this — so  prema- 
turely," Cutmore  told  him,  "but  for  the  fact  that 
I  am  coming  in  here  as  your  partner.  You  have 
a  right  to  know  my  plans — in  fact  the  real  reason 
why  I  decided  to  take  this  step.  Nothing  was  fur- 
ther from  my  thoughts  this  time  yesterday." 

Puckle  had  drawn  back,  stiffened.  He  stared  at 
Cutmore  as  if  he  were  the  asp  crawling  into  his 
bosom. 

Cutmore' s  gaze,  which  had  wandered  repeatedly 
during  the  last  few  minutes,  returned  to  Puckle. 
He  supposed  this  was  one  of  Puckle's  natural  ex- 
pressions. He  had  seen  several.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  you  could  not  judge  a  man  by  his  appearance. 
Puckle  was  certainly  a  forbiddingly  ugly  man. 

He  stood  up,  offered  his  hand,  over  which  Puckle 
merely  mumbled  without  actually  grasping  it.  Cut- 
more  expressed  his  satisfaction  over  the  "arrange- 
ment." He  would  see  him  at  three  o'clock  to- 
morrow. He  was  anxious  to  settle  things  and  begin, 
and  so  on  and  so  forth.  Puckle  thought  he  would 
never  go.  Then  he  went.  And  it  was  as  if  ele- 
gance, sobriety,  and  high  honor  had  gone  out  of 
that  room. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  49 

Puckle's  face  reddened.  It  seemed  to  swell  with 
rage.  He  swore  with  his  lips  working  and  his  teeth 
showing  as  if  he  bit  hot  blasphemies  and  masticated 
them.  He  had  been  a  fool,  yes,  forty  blanks  of  a 
fool.  He  would  never  have  dreamed  of  marrying 
that  girl  himself.  He  was  too  old,  not  her  kind. 
All  that,  yes.  But  it  would  have  been  a  refuge  and 
a  privilege  to  think  of  her,  reverently  as  the  symbol 
of  love  at  least.  Now  he  could  not  do  that.  And 
he  had  actually  engaged  to  help  the  man  who  pur- 
posed to  win  her.  He  wondered  how  many  other 
men  had  the  same  purpose.  It  was  to  be  a  scramble, 
then,  for  that  fair  thing.  He  felt  sure  of  it.  He 
stood  up,  walked  wearily  to  the  rack  where  his  hat 
hung,  too  much  depressed  to  kick  his  legs  and  shake 
his  trousers  down.  They  belled  above  his  heels 
behind.  He  took  his  hat,  considered  it  mournfully 
without  knowing  that  this  was  only  a  hat. 

"Lord,  it's  just  the  devil  either  way!"  he  groaned, 
put  it  on  as  if  this  were  a  poultice  he  applied. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  something.  Where  was 
that  brief  Smalley  promised  to  finish*?  He  had  not 
done  it.  He  was  in  the  mood  to  attend  to  Smalley ! 
When  you  have  suffered  defeat,  it  is  natural  to  re- 
call some  one  else  whom  you  can  put  to  flight.  He 
made  strides  for  the  door,  flung  it  open.  "Smal- 
ley!" he  rumbled. 

No  answer.  Then  he  saw  that  the  front  office 
was  empty,  that  the  shades  of  evening  were  gather- 


50  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

ing  there.     A  long  white  paper,  neatly  folded,  lay 
accusingly  on  top  of  Smalley's  desk. 

He  reached  for  it  as  he  passed  out,  and  down 
the  staircase. 


CHAPTER  III 

There  was  still  too  much  daylight  for  the  street 
lights  to  make  much  headway.  It  was  that  ugliest 
hour  at  the  end  of  the  day  when  the  poorer  clerks, 
the  frayed  people  of  the  little  trades  filled  the 
streets  with  their  pallor  and  dinginess.  How  many 
times  he  had  mingled  in  this  crowd  comfortably,  as 
a  man  mingles  with  his  own  people!  Now  they 
were  not  his  people.  He  had  no  people.  And  they 
depressed  him,  these  hungry,  impecunious  faces 
lifted  to  him  for  an  instant  in  the  sallow  light  as 
he  shoved  his  huge  body  through  the  crowd  with 
long  strides.  Many  of  them  knew  him,  bobbed 
their  heads  to  him  in  friendly  recognition.  He  did 
not  return  these  salutations  as  was  his  custom.  He 
knew  no  man  to-night.  He  was  Ishmael  on  his  way 
to  the  desert. 

Ishmael  halted  at  the  corner  in  front  of  the 
Madison  Hotel.  He  was  waiting  for  the  trolley 
that  would  take  him  to  this  desert,  which  was  two 
rooms  in  an  apartment-house  one  block  from 
Princess  Avenue.  Men  and  women  also  waiting 
for  this  trolley  thickened  about  him,  jammed  el- 
bows with  him.  He  did  not  see  them.  He  was 
thinking  how  much  better  it  would  have  been  if 

51 


52  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

he  had  not  yielded  to  his  distemper,  and  had  gone 
to  play  golf  with  Towne. 

"The  time  to  make  an  effort  is  when  you  feel 
least  inclined  to  make  an  effort" — and  realized  that 
he  had  spoken  this  thought  aloud  when  some  one 
behind  him  whispered, 

"That's  Puckle  talking  to  himself.  Know  him*? 
Yes,  queer  cus;  good  lawyer,  tho!" 

It  was  very  painful.  Everything  was  painful! 
The  car  approached.  He  swung  from  the  curb  and 
climbed  aboard  in  the  face  of  the  protesting  motor- 
man  before  it  stopped.  He  stumbled  over  half  a 
dozen  passengers  in  the  aisle  struggling  to  get  out 
and  grasped  a  strap  in  the  very  front  with  the  roar- 
ing, rattling,  jiggling  world  behind  him. 

Far  out  on  the  green  of  Millidge  where  Princess 
Avenue  became  the- even  more  fashionable  suburban 
road  there  is  a  fine  old  house  with  spreading  wings 
in  a  fine  old  garden;  a  white  house  which  has  been 
painted  so  many  times  during  the  last  hundred 
years  that  it  glistens  like  ivory  in  the  sun.  Green- 
latticed  blinds  fold  back  from  the  deep  casements, 
showing  the  mullioned  windows.  The  lights  above 
the  front  door  spread  like  a  fan.  An  old  English 
lantern  of  black  metal  and  glass  hangs  from  a  hook 
on  either  side  of  this  door.  And  in  the  middle  of 
it  there  is  an  iron  lion's-head  knocker,  with  a  worn, 
bright  place  on  the  plate  beneath  where  the  ring 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  53 

has  fallen  so  many  times  for  so  many  years,  all 
implying  that  large  and  important  people  lived 
inside  and  had  lived  there  before  the  days  of  brass 
door-bells,  that  they  were  of  the  sedate  and  impera- 
tive kind  who  would  not  concede  the  frail  tin- 
tinnabulation of  a  modern  door-bell. 

This,  however,  was  purely  an  act  of  the  imagina- 
tion. The  Crombies  had  always  lived  there  since  the 
original  Howard  Crombie  built  the  house  and  nailed 
that  knocker  to  the  front  door.  But  all  kinds  of 
Crombies  had  lived  in  it  since,  many  of  them  no 
better  than  other  people.  The  current  Mr.  William 
Crombie  had  in  fact  saved  it  by  the  skin  of  his 
teeth  from  being  sold  to  pay  the  debts  of  his 
profligate  father.  He  had  been  heard  to  say,  at 
the  time  that  there  should  never  be  another  "How- 
ard" Crombie  in  the  family,  two  successive  Howards 
having  been  spendthrifts.  He  was  himself  a  man 
of  superior  quality,  quite  up  to  the  indications  of 
the  lion's-head  knocker  on  his  front  door.  He  had 
not  only  retrieved  the  Crombie  fortune,  but  he  was 
president  of  the  First  National  Bank  and  sole  owner 
of  a  paper-  and  cotton-bag  factory  which  was  one 
of  the  larger  business  enterprises  of  Millidge 

But  when  his  first,  and  as  happened,  only  child 
was  born  she  proved  to  be  a  girl,  not  subject,  on 
account  of  her  inferior  gender,  to  be  called  "Wil- 
liam." He  compromised  by  naming  her  "Sarah," 
which  he  insisted  was  the  feminine  of  "William." 


54  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

Mrs.  Crombie  demurred,  not  that  she  minded  the 
child  being  called  Sarah,  altho  it  was  a  common 
name,  easily  corrupted  into  "Sally,"  but  she  told 
Mr.  Crombie  that  "Mary"  was  always  the  name 
associated  with  William,  and  she  thought  it  was 
a  prettier,  sweeter  name  anyway.  He  was  not 
primarily  considering  prettiness  and  sweetness  in 
naming  his  daughter,  he  said,  but  in  conferring  one 
upon  her  that  meant  something,  strength,  character. 
"Mary,"  in  his  opinion,  was  too  submissive  a  title 
to  give  a  girl  who  might  develop  into  something 
really  worth  while. 

Mrs.  Crombie  yielded  the  point  and  lingered 
merely  as  the  plaintively  protesting  mother  of  Mr. 
Crombie' s  daughter,  Sarah,  long  enough  to  see  her 
shoot  up  into  a  fiercely  handsome,  black-eyed,  long- 
legged,  awkward  girl  ready  for  college.  Then, 
much  against  her  wishes,  Mr.  Crombie  entered  her 
at  the  Millidge  University,  which  was  just  begin- 
ning to  be  a  co-educational  institution.  She  warned 
him  that  this  was  a  mistake,  that  the  poor  child 
would  never  marry.  She  would  find  out  too  much 
about  men  to  risk  falling  in  love.  That  love  with 
a  woman  was  based  upon  ignorance,  total  ignorance 
of  the  opposite  sex.  And  what  was  even  worse, 
every  young  man  in  Millidge  who  was  eligible  and 
might  care  for  Sarah  would  find  out  too  much  about 
her.  She  supposed  that  he  must  have  realized  Sarah 
had  a  disposition  singularly  like  a  man's  anyhow. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  55 

She  lacked  the  delicacy  and  softness  which  attract 
men.  She  should  be  sent  to  a  girl's  finishing-school, 
where  she  might  acquire  some  of  the  gentle  accom- 
plishments that  fit  a  girl  for  polite  society. 

Mr.  Crombie  retorted  that  he  did  not  want  his 
daughter  fitted  for  polite  society.  It  was  rotten. 
He  wanted  her  prepared  for  life,  cross-saddle 
fashion,  tightened  up  and  riveted  together  mentally 
and  physically  until  she  could  "face  the  music" 
without  getting  a  headache  or  flinging  a  fit  on  ac- 
count of  the  epileptic  development  of  the  emotional 
nature  which  he  had  observed  was  frequently  char- 
acteristic of  girls  "finished  by  females  in  a  female 
finishing-school . ' ' 

Therefore  Sarah  went  to  the  university.  And 
Mrs.  Crombie  did  not  live  long  enough  to  say  to 
her  husband,  "I  told  you  so!"  having  died  before 
Sarah  finished  her  course.  But  now  at  the  age  of 
thirty  she  was  still  unmarried.  She  was  not  subject 
to  headaches  nor  "fits"  and  she  had  never  been  in 
love.  This  fact  was  no  doubt  more  accountable  for 
her  remarkable  health  and  poise  than  the  vigorous 
training  she  had  had  in  the  university.  Love  is 
a  sort  of  malefactor  of  the  nervous  system,  respon- 
sible for  more  ills  of  the  mind  and  body  than  war 
or  pestilence. 

But  neither  had  Miss  Crombie  taken  life  "cross- 
saddle  fashion."  On  the  contrary,  she  had  sim- 
mered down  into  a  singularly  gracious  and  beautiful 


56  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

woman,  richly  and  ripely  handsome.  She  had  es- 
caped being  intellectual  by  a  kind  of  wise  feminine 
revulsion  to  this  cold  iridescence  of  the  human 
faculties.  She  was  one  of  Solomon's  daughters  who 
had  got  understanding  along  with  her  wisdom.  She 
was  an  alarmingly  sensible  young  woman.  And, 
contrary  to  paternal  expectations,  she  had  become 
a  sort  of  perpetual  hostess  to  the  younger  set  in 
Millidge  social  circles. 

You  may  sometimes  foretell  what  your  son  is 
going  to  be,  but  you  never  can  tell  how  a  daughter 
will  develop.  She  will  either  work  out  that  un- 
known quantity,  herself,  which  you  did  not  know 
was  in  her,  or  she  will  copy  some  other  unknown 
quantity,  which  certainly  was  not  in  her  when  you 
became  her  father  and  her  mother. 

One  afternoon  early  in  September  Sarah  Crombie 
and  Margaret  Miller  were  seated  in  Sarah's  bed- 
chamber, which  was  up-stairs  on  the  west  side  of 
the  Crombie  residence.  Margaret  was  an  old  col- 
lege mate  who  visited  the  Crombies  every  year  at 
this  season.  Sarah's  lavender  kimono  of  thinnest 
silk  was  drawn  closely  about  her  slender  figure,  her 
black,  crinkly  hair  hung  heavily  about  her  shoul- 
ders. Drops  of  water  glistened  on  it  in  the  flood 
of  sunlight  from  the  western  windows  behind  her. 
Margaret  was  bunched  up  on  a  stool  in  a  rose- 
colored  kimono,  a  smaller  figure.  Her  bright  hair 
flowing.  Drops  of  water  also  glistened  on  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  57 

golden  veil  it  made  in  the  sun.  They  had  the 
exotic-flower  look  women  always  have  when  they 
wear  pretty  kimonos.  Ostensibly  they  were  drying 
their  hair.  Now  and  then  Sarah  lifted  her  hands, 
thrust  them  in,  and  shook  hers  vigorously. 

Likewise,  now  and  then  Margaret  reached  deli- 
cately back  and  spread  her  shorter,  brighter  curls 
as  a  bird  preens  its  feathers.  In  fact,  they  were 
exchanging  confidences,  gossiping  not  openly  and 
aboveboard  in  their  normal  and  distinct  voices,  but 
in  the  softer  tones  of  gentle  treachery  that  women 
employ  when  the  victim  is  near  at  hand  and  may 
appear  at  any  moment. 

"Is  Betty  resting?"  Margaret  had  asked  to  begin 
with,  referring  to  Betty  Marshall,  who  was  also  a 
guest  in  the  house. 

"You  do  not  rest  when  you  are  in  love.  At  best 
you  only  lie  down  to  think  about  it  when  you  are 
too  tired  to  sit  up  and  think  about  it.  Betty  is 
writing  a  letter,"  Sarah  answered,  smiling. 

"To  Windy?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"But  he  was  here  last  night,  and  aren't  they  going 
for  a  drive  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  but  she  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning. 
She  is  answering  that  one.  Love  has  two  languages, 
you  know,  the  spoken  and  the  written.  The  latter 
is  the  vers  libre  of  love,"  she  laughed. 


58  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

They  heard  the  postman's  whistle  and  imme- 
diately after  a  scurry  in  the  next  room,  a  door 
swiftly  opened,  the  swish  of  skirts,  the  clatter  of 
heels  upon  the  stair. 

"She  always  mails  them  herself,"  Sarah  com* 
mented. 

"Do  you  think  he  is  really  in  love  with  her?'" 
Margaret  asked. 

"She  is  certainly  in  love  with  him.  As  for 
Windy,  you  know  him.  He  could  be  in  and  out 
of  love  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye." 

"Do  you  remember  his  first  affair?"  Margaret 
said,  smiling. 

"Nobody  can  be  sure  of  what  is  or  was  a  man's 
first  affair,"  Sarah  answered. 

"Oh,  you  know  the  one  I  mean,  the  little  Clewes 
girl.  He  was  crazy  about  her.  What  happened? 
I  never  heard  the  end  of  it." 

"It  ended  all  right.  She  jilted  him.  Married 
that  Jones  man  who  took  the  founders'  medal. 
They  were  in  the  same  class,  you  remember.  Jones 
is  a  clerk  in  one  of  the  stores,  here,  I  believe.  They 
live  in  a  little  bungalow  somewhere  on  that  street 
that  has  been  opened  between  Millidge  and  the 
golf-links.  She  has  two  children,  washed  out.  Does 
her  own  work. 

"There  was  a  story  going  the  rounds  here  a  while 
back  about  Windy  and  Mrs.  Jones." 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  59 

"Don't  tell  me  so!"  Margaret  exclaimed  in  the 
acquisitive  tones  of  one  who  wants  to  know,  and 
already  believes  the  worst. 

"Oh,  not  that,"  Sarah  hastened  to  defend;  "quite 
the  contrary.  It  seems  that  Windy  was  driving  up 
this  new  street  from  the  golf-links  with  a  friend 
when  somebody's  little  tow-headed  baby  rolled 
down  the  terrace  on  to  the  sidewalk  and  then  into 
the  street.  Windy  stopped  his  car,  picked  up  the 
squalling  kiddie,  and  went  to  restore  it  to  the 
frantic  mother,  who  had  rushed  out  with  another 
younger  babe  in  her  arms. 

"Then  they  recognized  each  other;  poor  little 
Mary  Clewes,  that  was,  faded,  in  her  faded  frock, 
her  lips  parted,  her  nursing-mother  eyes  fixed  on 
his  face  as  if  she  were  the  surprised  ghost  of  happier 
days.  They  stood  for  a  moment.  Then  Mary — 
you  know  she  was  a  spunky  little  thing — said,  Tin 
— I'm  happy,  Windy !' 

"  'But  I'm  free !'  "  he  answered,  and  turned  on 
his  heels  and  went  back  to  the  car." 

"Vindictive!"  Margaret  exclaimed. 

"He  settles  his  grudges;  he  does  not  forgive  them, 
if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"I  should  hate  to  marry  a  man  who  never  for- 
gives," Margaret  said,  going  back  to  the  original 
subject  under  discussion. 

"As  a  rule  they  are  the  most  unforgivable  people 
on  earth,"  Sarah  supplemented. 


60  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"And  when  you  are  married,  that  is  the  only 
means  of  prolonging  courtship,  isn't  it,  having  a 
quarrel  and  holding  out,  and  then  forgiving4?"  Mar- 
garet said,  looking  sentimental. 

"We  do  not  know,"  Sarah  reminded  her,  laugh- 
ing. "But  I  wish  Betty  would  not  marry  Windy. 
He  is  the  soul  of  honor,  but  not  dependable.  He  is 
liable  to  do  anything,  or  nothing." 

She  caught  sight  of  the  Millidge  Ledger  on  the 
floor. 

"Look  at  that,"  she  said,  reaching  for  the  paper 
and  poking  a  finger  through  an  open  space  in  one 
of  the  columns  where  something  had  been  neatly 
clipped  out. 

"It  was  the  announcement  of  the  new  law  firm 
of  Puckle  &  Cutmore.  Betty  cut  it  out." 

"Well,  it  is  a  great  thing  for  him,  isn't  it?"  Mar- 
garet said. 

"If  it  lasts. 

"The  trouble  with  Betty  is  that  she  thinks  love 
is  the  gospel  and  marriage  is  a  solemn  privilege, 
when  she  should  recognize  it  as  an  investment,  an 
opportunity  to  improve  her  position." 

"Sarah!" 

"Well,  why  should  a  dear  thing  like  Betty,  who 
could  marry  anybody,  stake  herself,  that's  it,  her- 
self, not  her  worldly  goods,  but  her  life  and  hopes 
of  happiness,  on  a  stroke  of  lightning  like  Windy 
Cutmore?  It  is  the  wildest  kind  of  adventure." 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  61 

"The  Marshalls  are  not  very  well  off,  then?" 
Margaret  asked. 

"Only  in  elegant  accessories.  They  have  no 
money,  practically  none,  but  Betty  is  gifted  with 
ancestors,  not  the  ordinary  aristocrats,  like  Windy's 
but  real  people  who  have  done  things. 

"Her  great-uncle  discovered  something  in  medi- 
cine ;  ether,  I  believe  it  was.  And  one  of  her  aunts 
married  a  Methodist  preacher  and  made  a  bishop 
of  him.  Her  grandfather  was  Chief  Justice  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  this  State.  Her  father  practices 
law  as  if  it  were  a  vocation,  not  a  profession. 
Father,  who  has  known  him  since  they  were  boys 
in  college  together,  calls  him  an  impractical  great 
man.  Her  mother  is  one  of  those  quiet,  durable 
women  who  will  do  right  in  spite  of  everything,  and 
is  always  making  ends  meet  with  a  fine  cambric 
needle. 

"Imagine  being  brought  up  by  parents  like  that, 
according  to  the  best  standards,  but  not  according 
to  facts ! 

"The  poor  child  should  have  gone  to  a  real  col- 
lege like  our  university,"  Sarah  went  on,  "but  they 
sent  her  to  one  of  those  romantic  institutions  where 
you  learn  to  be  more  of  a  woman  than  you  really 
ought  to  be,  and  where  you  graduate  with  a  daisy- 
chain  coiled  around  you,  singing  of  your  alma 
mater !" 


62  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

They  began  to  laugh  at  this  picture  when  Sarah 
suddenly  smothered  her  merriment,  turned  her  head 
sidewise,  listened,  and  spat  a  glance  of  her  black 
eyes  at  the  closed  door. 

"He  is  a  splendid  man,"  she  announced,  speaking 
in  tones  two  notes  higher  than  either  of  them  had 
risked  for  the  last  half-hour. 

Margaret  stared  at  her,  her  own  face  a  little  pink 
round  O  of  astonishment.  Then  she  caught  on. 

"Yes,  every  one  thinks  that,"  she  gasped,  also 
lifting  her  voice. 

The  door  opened  and  Betty  Marshall  entered. 

"Who  is  the  splendid  man  that  every  one  thinks 
is  splendid1?"  she  asked,  ready  to  join  in  this  praise. 

"I  was  just  telling  Margaret  what  a  fine  thing  it 
is  for  Windy  going  in  with  Mr.  Puckle,  and  how 
much  every  one  admires  Mr.  Puckle,"  Sarah  ex- 
plained. 

"Oh,"  Betty  said  as  if  their  idea  of  a  splendid 
man  was  a  sort  of  anticlimax  to  her  idea  of  a  splen- 
did man,  and  not  the  one  she  had  in  mind. 

"But  of  course  he  is,"  she  conceded,  seating  her- 
self near  the  windows,  where  she  commanded  a  view 
of  the  road  below.  This  she  did  at  once,  sending 
her  eyes  in  a  long  wishful  flight  toward  the  town. 
Then  she  turned  her  pretty  head  and  glanced  at 
the  two  young  women,  who  were  lazily  tucking  up 
their  hair. 

"Not  dressed  yet !"  she  said. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  63 

"We  are  enjoying  the  lassitude  of  being  old 
maids  and  not  having  to  preen  ourselves  for  a  man," 
Margaret  told  her  with  a  smile  that  was  a  sort 
of  upcut,  mischievous  and  accusative. 

"It  is  a  privilege  I  fear  you  will  never  have, 
Betty  dear,"  Sarah  added,  sighing  affectedly. 

The  color  of  perfect  happiness  in  a  young  girl's 
face  is  a  certain  shade  of  adolescent  pink,  not  too 
deep.  Betty  showed  them  this  cheek  of  rosy  snow, 
only  one.  She  was  not  ready  to  turn  the  other 
cheek  yet. 

She  was  dressed  to  the  last  tender  thought,  as  if 
presently  she  meant  to  make  an  offering  of  herself. 
She  wore  a  blue  frock,  not  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
because  no  other  blue  could  be  that  color,  but  it  was 
blue  enough,  entrancingly  so.  Stiff,  of  some  heavy 
material,  probably  linen.  The  long  sleeves  widened 
at  the  bottom  and  hung  like  bells  over  her  white 
wrists.  The  square  neck  was  finished  with  a  whip- 
stitch and  yellow  knots  below  as  if  the  pollen  of 
many  flowers  had  fallen  there.  Bunches  of  homely 
little  blossoms,  ragged  robins,  a  few  pinks,  and  tiny 
yellow  roses  stuck  up  around  the  brim  of  her  straw- 
colored  hat,  held  there  by  a  very  narrow  blue-velvet 
ribbon,  the  ends  crossed  behind,  showing  like  the 
slender  tail-feathers  of  a  bird. 

But  the  loveliest  thing  she  wore  was  a  smile  that 
was  not  yet  a  smile,  merely  a  declaration  of  happi- 
ness. 


64  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

This  girl  certainly  was  not  the  same  little  wishful 
figure  Puckle  had  seen  sitting  primly  against  the 
wall  at  the  dance  that  night  in  May.  This  girl's 
wish  had  been  fulfilled.  She  had  the  "hath"  look 
and  betrayed  it  by  her  sweet  assurance.  Her  heart 
soared  lark-high.  She  was  listening  for  one  sound 
while  she  pretended  to  be  listening  to  something 
else,  what  Sarah  was  saying  to  Margaret. 

"Going  back  to  Puckle,"  Sarah  was  saying,  once 
more  implying  that  he  had  been  the  sole  theme  of 
conversation  between  her  and  Margaret,  "if  I  really 
wished  to  marry,  which  I  do  not  wish,  I  should  con- 
sider Martin  Puckle  the  most  eligible  man  in 
Millidge." 

"Sarah!"  This  from  Margaret,  expressing  con- 
sternation. 

"Well,  I  should,"  Sarah  insisted,  looking  at 
Betty. 

She  hoped  Betty  would  get  what  she  was  about 
to  say  over  the  defenseless  head  of  Puckle. 

"You  do  not  need  to  be  anxious  about  how  he 
will  turn  out.  He  has  already  turned  out  success- 
fully. He  is  steady.  He  has  made  his  reputation, 
and  it  is  a  good  one.  He  is  well  set  up  so  far  as 
fortune  goes,  and  he  made  it  himself." 

"Hand-cobbled,"  Margaret  put  in.  She  had  not 
caught  on.  She  supposed  Puckle  was  one  of  those 
stones  Sarah  kept  in  her  mind  under  the  delusion 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  65 

that  it  was  an  ideal.  She  was  opposed  to  regarding 
Puckle  as  an  ideal. 

"Yes,  cobbled.  He  shows  it.  I  admit  that  he 
does,  but  that's  nothing.  If  God  had  made  only 
one  man,  that  man  would  have  been  Adam,  not  a 
pleasing  type.  Eve  would  never  have  married  him 
if  there  had  been  another  man  in  the  world  at  the 
time.  But  the  pattern  has  greatly  improved  since 
then.  Puckle  has  never  made  any  one  but  himself. 
No  practice.  But  even  if  you  do  see  the  marks  of 
the  hammer  on  him,  it  is  a  hammer,  not  a  fluting- 
machine." 

"But,  my  dear,  he  is  perfectly  awful,"  Margaret 
insisted.  "He  can  not  conduct  himself 

"Oh,  he  is  not  an  orchestra,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean,"  Sarah  flung  in. 

"He  is  fatally  deficient  in — in  the  right  feelings. 
Did  you  see  how  he  bent  over  me  at  dinner  last 
night,  talked  to  me  as  if  he  were  dining  out  of  the 
same  plate  with  me*?  I  had  to  exert  my  will-power 
to  sit  straight.  I  wanted  to  dodge,  especially  as 
his  manner  of  speaking — well,  it's  carnivorous !  He 
bites  his  words  and  shows  his  teeth." 

She  refused  to  join  in  the  gale  of  laughter  this 
description  provoked. 

"And  his  gesture,  he  has  only  one.  He  makes 
that  with  his  right  fist;  swings  it  straight  from  the 
shoulder.  I  felt  the  breath  of  that  fist  over  my 
head  more  than  once,  when  he  was  discussing  the 


66  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

unrest  of  labor.  He  is  violently  opposed  to  labor's 
resting,  to  anybody's  resting.  And  when  he  became 
violent  he  swung  his  fist." 

She  looked  from  Sarah  to  Betty,  wagging  herself 
on  the  stool  and  beginning  to  laugh  hysterically. 
"He  was  only  trying  to  be  agreeable,"  Sarah  ex- 
plained. 

"Well,  I  wish  he  had  tried  to  be  silent,"  Mar- 
garet retorted. 

"He  usually  is,"  Sarah  retorted,  determined  to 
defend  Puckle. 

"And  his  cravat,  did  you  notice  his  cravat*?" 
Margaret  went  on  shredding  Puckle. 

"That  was  not  a  cravat;  it  was  a  tie — untied," 
Sarah  supplemented. 

"The  thing  came  untied  during  the  violence  of 
his  dinner  performance!  Imagine  marrying  and 
having  to  live  with  a  man  until  you  are  dead  who 
dresses  like  that  and  acts  as  if  food  enraged  him!" 

"Oh,  they  are  mere  deficiencies  in  manners  and 
lack  of  taste  in  the  choice  of  clothes.  Any  wife 
could  correct  such  faults.  Any  wife  could  make  a 
very  personable  gentleman  of  Mr.  Puckle,  with  a 
little  tact  and  training,"  Sarah  answered. 

The  Lord  made  man,  created  He  him  in  His  own 
image.  But  every  woman  believes  she  can  make 
over  the  one  she  marries  and  improve  on  the  job. 
If  men  knew  this,  if  they  dreamed  that  the  gentle, 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  67 

clinging,  trustful  creature  whom  they  are  about  to 
marry  has  already  and  invariably  planned  the  re- 
forms she  will  make  in  him  at  once,  there  would  be 
many  weddings  indefinitely  postponed. 

"The  point  I  started  out  to  make,"  Sarah  said, 
returning  to  the  fray,  "was  that  Puckle  is  a  safe 
man  to  marry,  because  he  is  a  good  one,  not  a  bad 
one.  He  is  reliable,  not  changeable." 

Betty  moved  like  a  small  word  that  wished  to 
be  uttered.  Sarah  heard  the  furtive  sound,  and 
looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"Mr.  Puckle  is  a  nice  man,"  Betty  began,  damn- 
ing him  with  this  faint  praise,  "but  you  do  not  like 
or  love  or  marry  a  man  for  such  a  reason.  You 
love  him  for  his  quality,  what  he  is  himself,  quite 
aside  from  his  virtues  or  vices,  don't  you*?" 

This  was  the  only  contribution  she  made  to  that 
argument.  The  two  older  girls  stared  at  her,  then 
at  each  other,  as  much  as  to  say,  "What  wisdom 
is  this?' 

A  car  roared  along  the  street  below.  In  another 
moment  the  iron  ring  in  the  lion's  mouth  fell  twice 
in  quick  strokes  upon  the  door  below. 

"That  is  Windy,"  Betty  exclaimed,  making  for 
the  door. 

Here  she  paused  and  looked  back  at  Sarah. 

"We  may  come  back  later,  in  time  for  tea.  Is 
that  all  right?" 


68  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"Yes,  my  dear,  anything  you  do  is  all  right," 
Sarah  answered  tenderly  and  faintly  sad. 

"I  am  late,"  Cutmore  said,  bestowing  Betty  into 
the  car,  and  flirting  in  himself  under  the  wheel. 

"Puckle  detained  me.  We  have  a  rather  im- 
portant case  to-morrow,"  he  said,  sending  the  car 
swiftly  over  the  road. 

"I  am  glad,"  Betty  answered,  referring  to  this 
case. 

"And  Mr.  Puckle  is  nice,  isn't  he?"  meaning 
that  it  was  nice  of  Mr.  Puckle  to  have  an  impor- 
tant case  so  soon  after  he  had  taken  Windy  in. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  all  right,"  Cutmore  answered. 

"He  likes  you  immensely;  I  can  see  that,"  she 
offered. 

"He  should.  I  am  doing  the  work,  practically 
all  the  work  hi  the  office,"  he  replied  without 
enthusiasm. 

"That  is  splendid,  like  having  a  big  practice  of 
your  own,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  see  it  that  way,  but  he  said  he  "sup- 
posed so,"  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

He  wanted  to  forget  the  office,  the  work.  He 
wanted  to  think  of  something  utterly  and  entirely 
agreeable  to  him,  like  Betty.  The  day  had  been 
a  hard  one,  not  counting  the  labor  of  preparing 
this  case,  but  a  little  thing  had  happened.  Puckle 
had  come  into  his  office  early  that  morning,  before 
he  had  disposed  of  his  own  personal  mail.  This 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  69 

mail  consisted  of  numerous  bills.  It  always  did  at 
the  beginning  of  the  month.  Many  of  them  repeti- 
tions of  the  same  bills. 

He  had  seen  Puckle  staring  at  that  sheaf  of  let- 
ters. His  stare  was  not  accusative,  merely  thought- 
ful, like  a  man  who  makes  an  adding  machine  of 
his  eyes. 

Puckle  had  gone  on  to  his  own  office  without 
offering  any  comment;  of  course  not.  What  busi- 
ness was  it  of  Puckle's  what  he  owed?  Still  he 
was  depressed  by  this  incident.  He  could  not  ac- 
count for  that.  He  always  got  them,  and  he  always 
dropped  them  into  the  waste-basket,  not  that  he 
had  the  least  intention  of  failing  to  pay  them.  But 
he  did  not  have  the  money.  He  never  had  had 
enough  to  pay  all  his  creditors.  But  no  one  until 
this  day  except  himself  had  ever  seen  this  monthly 
collection  of  duns.  Puckle  did  not  get  them.  He 
knew  this  because  he  handled  the  mail.  But  that 
was  different.  Puckle  had  money,  plenty  of  it. 
He  did  not  have.  However,  the  future  was  bright. 
He  would  receive  a  good  salary  and  a  percentage 
of  the  fees.  He  had  Betty.  She  had  promised  to 
marry  him.  In  one  short  month  he  had  won  her; 
that  is,  her  own  consent.  He  must  still  go  through 
the  mill  of  seeing  the  old  people.  Betty  dreaded 
that.  She  told  him  so  now  every  time  they  were 
together.  She  seemed  to  be  mortally  afraid  of  her 
people — father,  mother,  aunts,  uncles — the  whole 


70  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

bunch.  He  dreaded  it,  but  he  did  not  doubt  that 
he  could  pull  it  off  all  right — asking  for  Betty. 

They  were  now  out  on  the  country  road,  moving 
swiftly,  the  engine  purring  softly.  Betty  had  re- 
moved her  hat.  A  lock  above  her  forehead  was 
flying  in  the  wind. 

"I  don't  think  it  belongs  to  me,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing adorably  as  she  tucked  it  back. 

"Not  now.  It  is  mine;  the  dearest  lock  on  your 
dear  head,"  he  told  her  tenderly. 

"And  your  heart  is  mine  too,"  he  said  trium- 
phantly. 

"Yes,  Windy.  I  am  very  happy,"  she  said,  and 
did  not  look  it. 

"You  are  thinking  about  Aunt  Theodosia,"  he 
laughed,  having  heard  much  of  this  redoubtable  old 
lady  who  was  now  the  widow  of  her  bishop. 

"You  would  dread  her  too,  if  you  knew  her," 
Betty  returned. 

"We  will  forget  her,"  he  said. 

So  they  did,  a  silence  growing  between  them 
which  is  sometimes  the  sweetest  speech  of  love. 
The  sun  hung  low.  Long  shadows  stretched  across 
the  fields.  Little  June  flowers  standing  among  the 
weeds  with  dusty  faces  looked  up  at  them  as  they 
passed,  that  look  which  all  flowers  have  when  lovers 
go  by. 

Once  she  said,  watching  the  pale  loveliness  of 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  71 

the  approaching  night,  "Windy,  did  you  ever  think 
how  love  makes  us  kin  to  all  this*?" 

She  said  it  with  no  diminishing  word  about  "all 
this,"  merely  a  timid  gesture,  as  if  these  evening 
prayers  of  the  world  must  not  be  disturbed. 

"Betty,"  he  returned,  "you  see  that  man  coming 
with  his  wagon  and  team,  and  those  pines  behind 
him  where  the  road  turns'?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  expecting  Windy  to  do  himself 
proud  with  a  finer  figure  of  speech  than  she  could 
think. 

"Well,  when  we  have  passed  that  man  and 
rounded  those  pines  I  shall  kiss  you,"  he  informed 
her. 

There  you  have  the  difference  between  a  man 
and  a  maid  in  love.  The  maid  beholds  it  like  a 
vision  in  all  things  about  her.  The  man  feels  it 
and  believes  in  nothing  so  quickly  as  "direct  action" 
in  love. 

"Windy!"  she  exclaimed  reproachfully. 

He  speeded  up.  They  passed  the  team  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  the  driver's  face  showing  through 
it  like  a  sallow  disk  upon  which  deep  indignation 
flared. 

They  approached  the  place  where  the  road  turned 
around  the  pines.  Cutmore  shot  a  glance  at  Betty. 
She  was  sitting  primly  erect,  very  small,  very 


72  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

severe.  But  the  fairy  lock  was  out  once  more,  wav- 
ing like  a  bright  signal  in  the  dusk.  She  would  be 
sweeter  to  kiss,  he  thought — and  was  immediately 
obliged  to  give  all  his  attention  to  the  road.  A 
long  green  car  shot  around  the  curve,  honked,  and 
barely  missed  the  fender  of  Windy's  roadster. 
Gussie  Towne,  dolled  up  in  fisherman's  togs,  sent 
them  a  flying  salute  as  he  passed,  while  still  an- 
other car  appeared  behind. 

Betty  laughed. 

"It  is  the  fishing  club  coming  home!  The  road 
will  be  policed  with  them  all  the  way  to  the  river," 
she  said,  implying  the  protection  of  providence. 

"Sentence  is  only  deferred,"  he  announced 
darkly. 

They  passed  the  next  car  and  came  into  a  clear 
road.  Windy  was  about  to  resume  the  one  worth- 
while subject  of  his  love  for  Betty  when  she  in- 
terrupted. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Towne?"  she  asked 
smoothly. 

"I  am  not  a  woman!"  he  retorted. 

He  thought  this  reference  to  Towne  under  the 
circumstances  was  offensively  irrelevant. 

"Only  the  ladies  think  of  Towne  at  all.  He  is 
the  official  flirt  of  Millidge.  No  other  occupa- 
tion," he  added  in  full  explanation. 

"Oh!"  she  murmured  discreetly. 

"Why?"  he  demanded. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  73 

"He  has  been  making  love  to  me.  So  naturally 
I  was  interested  to  know  about  him,"  she  said. 

"I  will  kill  him!"  he  growled. 

She  was  not  moved  by  this  threat.  She  appeared 
to  have  passed  on  to  some  thought  not  connected 
with  the  life  and  death  of  Towne. 

"And  Mr.  Tovey*?"  she  asked,  merely  making  an 
interrogation  of  that  gentleman. 

"Tovey*?"  he  repeated  as  if  he  could  trust  the 
name  of  Tovey  at  least.  "He  is  all  right;  nice  fel- 
low. What  about  him?" 

"He  has  been  doing  it  too,"  she  said,  as  one  gives 
news,  not  important,  but  news. 

Cutmore  looked  at  her.  She  did  not  return  this 
look  as  is  the  custom  between  lovers.  She  was 
gazing  straight  ahead,  as  if  straight  ahead  was 
unusual  peace  and  happiness. 

"And  I  think  Mr.  Crombie  would  like  to  marry 
me."  Period,  more  news,  but  not  regarded  by  her 
as  sensational. 

Cutmore  breathed  a  word  commonly  used  in  im- 
precations and  angry  prayers,  but  never  to  be  found 
in  the  softer  vocabulary  of  lovers. 

His  color  faded,  his  lip  tightened.  The  pupils 
of  his  eyes  dilated.  The  yellow  spots  in  them 
widened  and  glowed.  His  mind  passed  like  a  flame 
from  these  predatory  men  and  fell  upon  Betty  with 
consuming  rage.  He  hated  her  with  the  hatred  of 
a  dangerous  lover.  He  merely  despised  that  rich 


74  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

old  Crombie,  but  this  name  nevertheless  had  touched 
his  pride,  enfeebled  him,  except  for  the  strength 
of  his  rage  against  Betty. 

When  violence  sits  beside  you,  you  usually  know 
it,  even  if  no  sword  is  drawn  to  slay  you.  Betty 
was  either  so  brave  or  so  simple  that  she  remained 
unconcerned.  She  sat  with  her  chin  lifted,  her  lips 
parted  like  the  thinly,  delicately  curled  petals  of 
a  rose,  her  eyes  still  covering  the  distances  ahead. 

Cutmore  put  on  the  brakes,  jerked  a  lever, 
whirled  the  steering-wheel  viciously.  The  car  ca- 
reened and  spun  around.  Betty  rose  and  fell  with 
these  seismic  disturbances,  then  settled  down  in  her 
place  as  they  started  back  for  Millidge. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go  ahead  and  marry  him1?" 
he  demanded  gruffly. 

"Marry  whom*?"  she  asked  vaguely  as  if  she  had 
missed  this  part  of  the  conversation. 

"Crombie,  of  course,"  he  answered.  "Crombie 
is  rich,  his  age  doesn't  count,  give  you  a  splendid 
establishment,  a  good  time,  everything  women 
really  want." 

"Windy!"  she  exclaimed,  her  voice  keen  and 
sweet,  her  eyes  covering  him  with  reproaches. 
"What  is  this  you  are  saying1?  Don't  you  know  I 
shall  be  marrying  you  just  for  love"?  Nothing 
else." 

His  lips  trembled,  his  eyes  suffused  with  tears. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  75 

The  reaction  from  this  devastating  horror  was  too 
much. 

Betty  regarded  him  laughing,  confused,  and  a  bit 
pleased  in  the  deeper  feminine  heart  of  her,  as  all 
women  are  when  they  discover  the  harrowing 
depths  of  passion  in  a  man. 

"Surely  you  do  not  think  I  am  marrying  you  for 
just  things  and  a  good  time,  Windy!" 

"What  for,  then?"  he  asked  huskily,  humbled 
for  the  first  time  during  this  brief  but  vigorous 
courtship. 

"Not,"  she  began  slowly  as  if  she  considered  this 
matter  carefully,  "not,  I  believe,  because  I  love 
you  so  much,  dear,  but  because  you  need  so  much 
to  be  loved;  more  than  I  do,  more  than  any  one  I 
know,  you  need  to  be  loved,"  she  repeated. 

"You  are  a  dear  little  brick,  Betty,"  he  whis- 
pered as  he  let  go  the  steering-wheel,  clasped  her, 
and  kissed  her. 

They  went  on  for  a  time  talking  blissfully,  deal- 
ing in  those  futures  which  all  lovers  negotiate. 
They  came  presently  in  sight  of  Millidge,  an  amu- 
let of  lights  lying  upon  the  breast  of  the  hills. 
They  should  be  too  late  for  tea  with  Sarah,  they 
agreed,  and  seemed  happily  resigned  to  the  loss  of 
this  tea. 

"I  think  Sarah  will  marry  Mr.  Towne,"  she  said 
with  no  preamble  at  all  to  this  astonishing  news. 

Windy  laughed  aloud.    He  poohpoohed  the  very 


76  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

idea.  It  was  absurd.  Towne  was  utterly  negli- 
gible. He  was  an  ass.  Sarah  was  a  fine  woman. 
He  did  not  like  her ;  she  was  not  the  kind  of  woman 
he  admired.  But  she  had  sense ;  a  lot  of  it. 

"Still  she  will  marry  Towne,"  Betty  insisted. 

"Why  do  you  think  so1?"  he  asked. 

"Because  she  never  talks  about  him,  and  every 
one  else  does.  Because  he  makes  love  to  every  other 
woman,  but  never  to  Sarah." 

This  was  psychology,  feminine  and  astute,  but 
Windy  was  not  convinced.  He  could  not  see  how 
such  a  conclusion  could  follow  such  a  premise. 

"He  is  saving  Sarah  for  the  last,"  Betty  went 
on.  "Wearing  her  down,  piquing  her  pride,  and 
teasing  her  patience.  And  she  is  waiting  for  him, 
as  some  one  waits  to  chasten  a  recreant.  She  will 
marry  him  just  to  prove  a  theory." 

"What  theory?" 

"Sarah  has  great  ideas  about  reconstructing  men 
in  the  married  relation.  I  have  heard  her  talk 
about  it.  She  thinks  even  Mr.  Puckle  could  be 
improved !" 

"Well,  at  least  he  never  will  be.  Old  Puckle  is 
not  a  marrying  man.  He's  hard  as  nails,"  he  told 
her. 

She  did  not  think  so.  On  the  contrary,  she  be- 
lieved he  was  very  impressionable.  But  upon  re- 
flection she  decided  not  to  tell  Windy  what  she 
thought  of  Mr.  Puckle. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  77 

Then  at  the  very  last  she  reminded  him  that  she 
would  go  back  home  on  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
and  how  she  dreaded  that  because  she  had  not 
mentioned  him,  nor  anything,  in  her  letters  home. 
And  he  said  this  had  all  been  happily  arranged. 
He  would  run  down  with  her  and  have  it  out  with 
the  family,  so  that  would  be  over,  and  they  could 
be  married  soon.  Very  soon  was  his  idea  of  soon. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  good  deal  can  happen  in  one  month.  For  ex- 
ample, you  may  become  adjusted  to  the  inevitable. 
Persons  have  been  known  to  do  it  in  a  much  shorter 
period  of  time. 

The  evidences  of  a  complete  adjustment  on  the 
part  of  Martin  Puckle  were  positive  and  clearly 
visible  to  the  naked  eye. 

The  second  story  of  the  Puckle  Building  on 
Union  Street  had  been  remodeled  and  furbished  up. 
Windows  cut  in  the  side  walls.  The  front  office 
had  been  foreshortened  until  Miss  Smith  and 
Smalley  found  their  desks  jammed  against  the  win- 
dows overlooking  the  street.  Back  of  this  clerical 
coop  there  was  another  office,  occupied  by  Wind- 
ham  Cutmore,  Puckle's  new  partner.  He  occupied 
it  assiduously,  and  worked  fiercely,  what  time  he 
was  not  courting  Betty  Marshall. 

On  the  morning  of  this  day,  the  latter  part  of 
which  had  been  spent  so  rapturously  by  the  two 
lovers  motoring  on  the  Millidge  road,  Puckle  was 
seated  as  usual  at  his  desk,  not  busy,  but  thinking. 
A  good  deal  of  work  was  going  on,  but  he  was  not 
doing  it.  His  expression  was  subdued,  like  a  man 

who  has  defeated  himself  in  an  argument. 

78 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  79 

What  he  wanted  to  know  was  why  he  could  not 
forget  that  girl.  Why  had  he  taken  Cutmore  into 
partnership  with  him  when  of  all  men  he  did  not 
want  him.  Why  he  treated  Cutmore  with  so  much 
respect,  even  deference.  Why  he  actually  felt  a 
sort  of  anguished  interest  in  his  prospects,  to  the 
extent  that  he  was  worried  about  that  pile  of  bills 
he  had  just  seen  on  Cutmore's  desk.  The  man  was 
in  debt,  and  contemplating  marriage.  Then  he 
went  back  to  the  girl;  this  dull  pain  in  the  region 
of  his  heart,  an  organ  hitherto  unknown  to  him  ex- 
cept in  the  purely  physical  sense. 

The  goings  on  about  him  recently  had  not  tended 
to  lessen  this  sensation.  He  had  seen  the  girl  again; 
frequently,  in  fact.  It  was  unavoidable.  He  had 
been  dragged  into  Cutmore's  set.  She  was  there, 
of  course.  Her  name  was  Betty  Ann  Marshall, 
called  "Betty."  If,  well,  if  he  had  to  call  her  he 
would  always  give  her  the  full  benefit  of  the  Ann. 
She  looked  Annish,  old-fashioned,  fine,  and  sweet. 
She  had  adopted  him  in  a  way,  as  a  hopeful  maiden 
adopts  a  harmless  elderly  gentleman.  She  looked 
at  him  with  a  certain  confidential  kindness  imply- 
ing that  she  forgave  him  his  homeliness,  his  blun- 
dering awkwardness.  She  palpably  praised  him, 
deferred  to  him,  wanted  to  know  in  return  if  he 
did  not  think  Windy  would  make  a  wonderful  law- 
yer. He  told  her  that  he  did  think  so.  She  blessed 
him  for  this  assurance  with  a  look  that  was  unen- 


80  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

durably  sweet.  Then  he  remembered  another  look 
she  had  given  him  the  night  before,  at  the  Crom- 
bies'  dinner  party.  It  was  when  she  caught  sight 
of  his  cravat.  He  saw  her  eyes  rest  upon  it  as  if 
the  thing  actually  gave  her  pain. 

He  was  wearing  the  same  cravat  now,  like  the 
tails  of  two  jay-birds  crossed  beneath  his  collar. 
Something  wrong  with  the  old  thing ! 

He  raised  his  hairy  fist  slowly,  hooked  a  finger 
in  this  cravat,  yanked  it  from  his  neck,  and  flung 
it  across  the  room,  a  striped  blue-and-white  string 
with  black  streaks  in  it.  He  had  been  born  into 
the  collarless,  rice-button  class;  he  would  stay  in 
it !  No  more  f olderols  around  his  neck !  He  would 
stick  to  his  string-ties.  And  no  more  foolishness 
about  that  girl.  Then  he  fell  to  thinking  about  a 
wisp  of  hair  that  never  would  lie  smoothly  on  her 
sleek  head,  the  delicate  way  she  drew  it  back  and 
tucked  it  in.  He  wondered  how  many  thousand 
times  she  had  done  that. 

At  this  moment  Cutmore  came  in  hurriedly  to 
consult  him  about  something.  He  crossed  the  room 
with  quick,  nervous  strides,  but  Puckle  saw  his  eye 
stumble  over  that  torn  cravat.  He  reddened 
guiltily. 

The  guilt  of  a  secret  lover  is  a  queer  thing.  He 
feels  it  most  when  he  is  innocent,  and  not  at  all 
when  he  is  triumphantly  guilty. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  81 

"Mr.  Puckle,"  Cutmore  began  at  once,  "we  shall 
finish  the  Corcle  case  to-morrow,  won't  we4?" 

Puckle  said  he  thought  that  was  highly  probable. 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  be  out  of  the  office  for  a 
couple  of  days  the  latter  part  of  the  week.  Betty, 
Miss  Marshall,  returns  home  Thursday.  It — er — is 
rather  important  that  I  should  go  down  about  the 
same  time,"  he  explained.  And  he  would  have  said 
more,  but  Puckle  did  not  invite  his  confidence. 

"Suits  me,"  he  answered  briefly. 

"Thanks,"  Cutmore  returned,  and  went  out. 

On  Saturday  morning  Cutmore  was  still  absent 
from  the  office.  He  was  in  Culloden  with  Betty. 
He  would  not  return  before  Monday,  Puckle,  there- 
fore, was  engaged  with  the  mail  which  ordinarily 
now  went  to  Cutmore's  desk.  There  were  several 
bills  in  it  addressed  to  Cutmore.  He  frowned  at 
these  and  laid  them  aside.  He  finished  reading  the 
remaining  letters  and  was  about  to  ring  for  Miss 
Smith  when  that  young  person  appeared,  minus  her 
pad  and  pencil. 

"Mr.  Marshall  to  see  you,  Mr.  Puckle,"  she  an- 
nounced with  an  air  of  self-defense  which  implied 
it  was  not  her  fault  that  a  man  wanted  to  see  Mr. 
Puckle;  rather  it  was  her  disagreeable  duty  to  tell 
him  so,  because  Mr.  Puckle  always  glared  savagely 
at  her  when  she  did  it. 

"He  is  from  Culloden,"  she  added  significantly 


82  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

as  if  a  possible  sensation  might  be  concealed  in  this 
information.  For  by  this  time  every  one  who  knew 
Windham  Cutmore  knew  that  he  must  be  engaged 
to  Miss  Crombie's  pretty  guest,  Betty  Marshall,  of 
Culloden. 

'Til  see  him,"  Puckle  growled. 

This  growl  was  a  bluff,  put  up  for  the  stenog- 
rapher's benefit.  He  was  more  anxious  than  savage 
at  the  idea  of  seeing  this  male  Marshall.  Cutmore 
must  have  done  some  quick  work  at  Culloden  to 
bring  this  back-kick  of  the  family  gun.  But  why 
should  he  be  dragged  into  this  affair*?  He  had 
often  said  that  a  man  contemplating  marriage 
should  be  required  to  give  bond  to  honor,  love,  and 
support  his  wife,  that  mere  vows  were  not  enough. 
It  was  a  strictly  business  method  of  insuring  a  mar- 
riage. He  thought  a  man  would  think  twice  before 
he  jumped  such  a  bond  or  got  himself  haled  into  a 
divorce  suit.  But  he  was  in  no  position  to  give  even 
his  word  for  Cutmore,  as  a  husband.  He  was  in  a 
very  painful  position,  fearing  that  something  like 
this  was  about  to  be  demanded  of  him. 

An  elderly  gentleman,  short,  rotund,  with  a  very 
florid  countenance,  waddled  into  the  room.  His 
eyes  were  blue  and  blared  as  if  hot  fires  burned  be- 
hind them.  His  gray  mustaches  bristled  and  spread 
above  a  puissant  mouth  like  the  enlarged  wings  of 
a  yellow-jacket.  His  goatee  beard  of  a  golden 
brown  streaked  with  gray  clung  to  his  chin  like  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  83 

magnified  body  of  this  particularly  irrit?ble  insect. 
His  black  trousers  were  elegantly  creased.  He 
wore  a  white  vest,  which  must  have  been  as  wide 
as  a  woman's  petticoat,  beneath  a  short  black  coat. 

"Mr.  ruckle*?"  he  asked,  advancing  with  a  short, 
pacing  step. 

Puckle  stood  up  behind  his  desk  and  admitted 
his  identity. 

"Marshall's  my  name,"  the  other  said,  swinging 
himself  with  the  rotary  movement  of  a  spherical 
body  on  legs  and  extending  his  hand,  which  Puckle 
received,  and  felt  himself  violently  shaken  in 
return. 

The  impression  he  gave  was  one  of  energy  now 
intensified  by  some  strong  emotion,  and  of  frank- 
ness, also  intensified  by  strong  emotion. 

Puckle  said  he  was  "glad  to  meet  Mr.  Marshall" 
and  invited  him  to  be  seated. 

The  old  gentleman  reached  back,  caught  the  arm 
of  the  chair,  and  incased  himself  in  it,  letting  him- 
self down  with  the  care  of  a  fat  man  who  makes 
sure  first  that  the  thing  he  sits  upon  is  strong 
enough  to  bear  his  weight. 

It  was.  He  crossed  his  legs,  leaned  back,  and 
regarded  Puckle  like  a  suppressed  oration.  He 
began  at  once,  speaking  in  that  tone  of  voice  not 
loud,  but  with  feeling. 

"Mr.  Puckle,"  he  said,  "I  am  here  to  see  you  on 
a  matter  of  the  gravest  importance." 


84  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

Puckle  bowed  gravely. 

"And  I  must  return  at  once  to  Culloden,  because 
it  must  be  settled  at  once,"  he  announced,  imply- 
ing that  this  settlement  would  be  made  entirely 
according  to  his  wishes. 

Again  Puckle  inclined  his  head  still  more  gravely. 

"In  the  first  place,  and  to  be  as  brief  as  possible, 
who  is  Windham  Cutmore  *?"  he  demanded. 

"As  it  happens,  Mr.  Cutmore  is  my  partner  at 
law,"  Puckle  answered. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  if  he  were  of  any  conse- 
quence in  the  profession  I  should  have  heard  of 
him.  I  am  a  lawyer  myself." 

"He  is  young,"  Puckle  put  in. 

" — And  I  never  heard  of  him  until  he  appeared 
at  my  door  in  Culloden  on  Thursday  afternoon," 
he  finished. 

"He  accompanied  my  daughter,  Betty,  who  has 
been  here  on  an  extended  visit  to  the  Crombies," 
he  announced,  and  fired  a  glance  at  Puckle. 

Puckle  replied  that  he  had  had  the  pleasure  of 
making  Miss  Marshall's  acquaintance.  His  man- 
ner implied  that  this  was  a  privilege. 

"Well,  then,  if  you  know  my  daughter  you  will 
understand.  You  will  comprehend  my  feelings," 
he  hesitated,  as  if  he  were  about  to  embarrass  him- 
self by  committing  a  breach  of  family  confidence. 

"I  must  be  frank.  I  am  compelled  to  be,"  he 
began  again.  "The  fact  is,  sir,  that  Betty  has  been 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  85 

led  to  engage  herself  to  this  young  man,  a  total 
stranger  to  us,  and  without  our  knowledge  or  con- 
sent!" 

Puckle  remained  discreetly  silent. 

"Now  we  are  opposed  to  this  engagement.  Of 
course  we  are.  Parents  do  not  lightly  dispose  of 
their  daughters  to  a  perfect  stranger." 

Puckle  said  that  this  was  natural.  It  was  very 
difficult  to  wean  parents  from  their  offspring. 

Marshall  considered  this  enigmatical  reply  for 
a  moment,  eyes  fixed  explosively  on  Puckle' s  strictly 
legal  countenance.  He  could  make  nothing  of  it, 
and  went  on. 

"But  this  is  not  the  worst  of  it,"  he  exclaimed. 
"She  is  determined  to  marry  him.  We  have  en- 
deavored to  dissuade  her.  It  is  in  vain.  She  is 
deaf  to  reason,  even  to  our  commands.  She  will 
marry  him !  She  sticks  to  that.  Now,  this  willful- 
ness is  not  like  her.  She  has  always  been  a  re- 
markably obedient  girl.  She  is  completely  under 
the  influence  of  this  man,  whom  we  neither  like  nor 
trust!" 

"Why*?"  Puckle  asked,  finding  in  himself  a 
strange  desire  to  defend  and  preserve  Betty's  lover 
for  her. 

"The  evidence  is  against  him!  Why  does  he 
become  engaged  to  her  without  first  making  him- 
self known  to  us?" 


86  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

Puckle  admitted  that  this  was  "hasty"  but  not 
unusual. 

"And  his  manner!  I  have  never  seen  a  man  in 
an  equivocal  position  show  such  arrogance.  He 
asked  me  for  Betty,  having  already  stolen  her!  I 
referred  to  his  reprehensible  conduct.  I  refused 
my  consent,  of  course.  He  replied  coolly  that  he 
should  have  been  glad  to  have  it  for  Betty's  sake, 
but  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  it  made  practically 
no  difference,  since  they  would  be  married  in  any 
case.  Then  he  took  his  hat,  wished  me  a  very  good 
morning,  and  left  the  house.  Then  I  took  my  hat, 
caught  the  first  train,  and  came  here  to  see  you." 

Puckle  said  that  he  would  be  glad  to  serve  Mr. 
Marshall  in  any  possible  way,  but  he  implied  that 
^'possible"  was  an  exceedingly  limiting  term. 

"Betty  has  told  us  that  he  is  your  law  partner. 
This  is  the  only  practical  information  we  have  been 
able  to  obtain  from  her  about  him.  Now  you  must 
know  all  about  him,  which  is  what  we  must  know." 

Marshall  leaned  back,  subsided,  and  waited. 
Puckle  evaded  this  interrogative  stare.  He  fumbled 
in  the  drawer  of  his  desk,  brought  out  a  box  of 
cigars,  and  offered  them  to  his  guest. 

The  guest  repelled  them  with  a  moral  gesture, 
a  sort  of  anathema  waved  with  his  right  hand.  No, 
thanks!  He  never  smoked  nor  drank  intoxicants 
nor  used  strong  language  except  when  it  was  his 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  87 

duty  to  do  so.  He  meant  that,  having  a  character 
burnished  with  these  virtues,  he  was  justified  in 
certain  high  requirements  for  a  prospective,  but  un- 
welcome, son-in-law. 

Puckle  chose  a  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  after  a 
thoughtful  pause  he  began  a  singularly  flat,  dull, 
and  uninteresting  history  of  Windham  Cutmore. 
It  was  sketchy  and  rested  principally  upon  the  facts 
that  the  said  Cutmore  was  of  excellent  lineage,  none 
better.  He  had  graduated  from  the  university  and 
later  from  the  Harvard  Law  School.  He  considered 
him  unusually  well  equipped  for  the  practice  of 
law. 

"So  far,  so  good,"  the  old  gentleman  announced, 
"but  these  qualifications  do  not  get  him  very  far 
as  the  husband  of  my  daughter.  A  married  man 
must  possess  domestic  virtues.  Has  he  these  vir- 
tues'? Is  he  moral,  temperate*?" 

Puckle  knew  nothing  to  the  contrary.  Judging 
by  what  he  had  seen  of  Cutmore  he  thought  he  was 
probably  fastidiously  moral.  He  never  drank.  He 
was  sure  of  that.  As  for  being  temperate,  he 
thought  this  was  a  matter  of  temperament. 

"Ah!"  Marshall  exhaled  as  if  this  delicate  dis- 
tinction involved  the  very  hairs  of  his  Betty's  head. 

"Does  he  pay  his  debts?" 

He  wanted  to  know  this  with  the  look  of  an  old 
dog  with  his  ears  pricked  and  his  nose  to  the  ground. 


88  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

Puckle  moved  in  his  chair.  It  was  a  sort  of 
psychological  retreat. 

"I  am  sure  Cutmore  is  the  very  soul  of  honor!" 
he  answered  after  a  pause. 

"Damme,  sir,  I  do  not  ask  about  the  soul  of  this 
man's  honor !  Many  a  man  dies  bankrupt  with  just 
such  a  soul.  What  I  want  to  know  is  whether  he 
has  the  ability  and  disposition  to  manage  his  own 
affairs  in  a  way  that  would  provide  properly  and 
comfortably  for  his  family*?" 

Cutmore  had  some  means,  Puckle  told  him,  in- 
cluding the  Cutmore  residence  on  Princess  Avenue. 
This,  with  his  practice,  should  be  a  modest  com- 
petency, he  thought. 

"Is  he  religious'?  Betty  could  not  tell  us  what 
church  he  attends." 

Upon  this  point  Puckle  professed  total  and  blind- 
ing ignorance.  Then  he  recalled  the  year  Cutmore 
had  lived  alone  in  his  icabin  on  the  mountains 
above  Millidge.  He  mentioned  this.  He  under- 
stood that  Cutmore  devoted  himself  to  the  study 
of  subjects  relating  to  spiritual  phenomena. 

"Sounds  queer,"  the  father  of  Betty  shot  in. 

Puckle  agreed  that  it  was,  but  he  thought  Cut- 
more  was  a  remarkable  man  in  some  ways.  He  had 
a  streak  of  genius  or  originality  which  would  ac- 
count for  a  thing  like  that. 

"Originality  in  a  husband  is  dangerous,  Mr. 
Puckle,"  the  other  replied.  "A  husband,  of  all  crea- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  89 

tures,  must  be  an  entirely  familiar  type,  or  his  wife 
will  be  always  seeking  him,  even  when  he  is  pres- 
ent with  her.  As  for  genius,  sir,  it  is  fatal  to  hap- 
piness. I  never  knew  any  one  to  be  mixed  up  with 
a  genius  who  enjoyed  normal  repose  of  mind  or 
body.  It  is  eruptive  and  destructive " 

Puckle  began  to  smile.  He  said  he  did  not  think 
Cutmore  had  enough  genius  to  cause  seismic  disturb- 
ances. He  was  simply  a  very  bright  young  man. 

"That  sounds  better.  Bright  is  a  lucid  adjec- 
tive, suitable  to  ambitious  youth,"  the  other  an- 
swered. 

Puckle  hastened  to  add  that  Cutmore  was  ex- 
ceedingly ambitious. 

Marshall  consulted  his  watch  and  came  to  his 
feet.  He  must  catch  the  next  train. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Puckle,"  he  said,  ex- 
tending his  hand.  "You  have  relieved  my  anxiety 
to  a  degree,  but  not  entirely.  I  can  not  explain,  but 
that  young  man  seems  to  me  dangerously  potential. 
I  doubt  if  any  one  could  tell  what  he  might  do  in 
an  emergency." 

Puckle  said  he  hoped  everything  would  turn  out 
all  right,  accompanying  the  anxious  father  to  the 
door. 

He  had  done  his  best  for  Betty,  but  with  a  heavy 
heart,  with  grave  misgivings. 


CHAPTER  V 

Windham  Cutmore  reached  his  office  very  early 
on  Monday  morning.  When  Smalley  and  Miss 
Smith  came  in  at  eight  o'clock  he  was  tearing 
through  the  mail.  When  Puckle  slouched  in  about 
nine  o'clock  he  had  dictated  replies  to  a  consider- 
able bunch  of  letters,  and  he  was  fussing  among  a 
mass  of  papers,  his  lips  snarled  over  a  cigar.  He 
was  applying  himself  with  ferocious  energy  to  the 
practice  of  law  this  morning,  much  as  a  man  takes 
to  strong  drink  when  he  has  something  disagreeable 
to  forget. 

He  glanced  up  as  Puckle  entered,  but  so  briefly 
as  not  to  catch  that  gentleman's  eye. 

"Good  morning!"  said  Puckle. 

"Good  morning!"  he  returned,  merely  admitting 
that  much  about  the  morning,  not  that  he  cared 
what  kind  of  morning  it  was. 

The  idea  conveyed  was  that  he  supposed  Puckle 
would  pass  on  into  his  own  office  where  he  belonged, 
and  that  he  was  not  needed  in  this  one. 

But  Puckle  lingered.  He  asked  some  questions 
about  whether  affidavits  connected  with  a  mining 
case  had  come  in.  Cutmore  answered  briefly  that 
they  had  come  in  the  morning's  mail.  Puckle 

90 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  91 

wanted  to  know  if  he  had  the  statement  of  the 
properties  involved  ready.  Cutmore  said  that  he 
was  now  at  work  on  that.  His  manner  implied 
that  it  was  very  difficult  to  copy  and  add  figures 
and  subtract,  divide  and  discount  while  being 
obliged  to  carry  on  a  conversation  with  another 
person.  Still  Puckle  did  not  go.  He  was  not  curi- 
ous about  what  had  happened  at  Culloden,  but  he 
was  in  a  human  mood ;  he  would  have  liked  a  little 
conversation  bearing  upon  the  "situation,"  not  that 
he  would  bid  for  it,  but  Cutmore  might  want  to  say 
something.  He  said  he  hoped  he,  Cutmore,  had 
left  Miss  Marshall  well.  Yes,  thanks,  she  was. 
And  that  he  had  enjoyed  his  visit  to  Culloden. 
This  much  was  permissible,  he  thought.  Appar- 
ently Cutmore  did  not  think  so.  Culloden,  he  re- 
plied, was  not  a  place  to  be  enjoyed.  Betty  was 
the  only  endurable  feature  of  that  little  rag  of  a 
town.  Puckle  said  that  he  had  understood  that  it 
was  quite  a  progressive  place.  Cutmore's  silence 
was  prohibitive. 

Puckle  considered  whether  he  should  raise  the 
wind  by  mentioning  the  reciprocating  visit  Betty's 
father  had  paid  to  Millidge  during  Cutmore's  ab- 
sence. He  supposed  Cutmore  would  infer  the  cause 
of  this  visit.  In  that  case  he  would  give  an  encour- 
aging report  of  his  interview  with  Marshall.  He 
would  say  nothing  to  cloud  the  situation.  Finally 
after  a  silence  during  which  Cutmore's  pen  scratched 


92  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

furiously,  and  after  Puckle  had  pretended  to  read 
the  head-lines  on  the  front  page  of  the  morning 
paper,  he  decided  that  this  was  no  time  to  raise  any 
more  wind  than  appeared  to  be  already  blowing. 
He  laid  the  paper  on  the  desk,  made  some  remark 
to  the  effect  that  he  believed  this  would  be  another 
sizzling  day,  and  went  on  into  his  own  office.  All 
of  which  was  very  unlike  him.  But  he  wanted  to 
hear  something,  any  little  thing  about  Betty,  and 
how  the  land  lay  before  Betty's  dear  feet. 

Cutmore  continued  to  work  furiously.  He  had 
passed  through  a  very  disagreeable  experience. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  been  called  in 
question,  not  for  some  deed,  but  for  being  himself. 
He  had  seen  himself  in  the  diminishing  eyes  of 
Betty's  relations.  The  image  he  beheld  there  was 
far  from  being  the  one  he  cherished  of  himself. 
For  him  it  had  been  like  walking  in  among  strange 
animals  who  resented  him  chiefly  for  that  reason. 
They  had  gored  him  with  questions  which  went  be- 
yond their  rights  to  know  of  his  means  and  pros- 
pects. He  freely  granted  them  this  information. 
But  it  was  not  enough.  They  wanted  to  heckle 
him.  They  observed  that  he  did  not  attend  divine 
worship  on  Sunday.  Why*?  This  from  Betty's 
aunt  Theodosia.  His  answer  that  the  idea  of  go- 
ing to  church  had  not  occurred  to  him  excited  her 
worst  fears  and  suspicions.  He  had  to  submit  to 
being  cross-questioned  by  this  villainous  old  woman 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  93 

when  she  returned  from  the  Sabbath  service  and 
found  him  seated  with  Betty  on  the  porch.  She 
was  the  feminine  replica  of  her  brother,  Betty's 
father.  She  was  very  fat,  she  wheezed,  she  wore 
an  atrocious  bonnet.  She  spat  at  him  with  her 
eyes,  and  she  was  determined  to  know  if  he  was  a 
member  of  the  church — any  church. 

In  spite  of  Betty's  warning  glance,  of  the  finger 
pressed  to  her  lip,  he  had  told  this  old  woman  that 
some  time  or  other  in  his  extreme  youth  he  had 
been  taken  into  the  church  "with  a  lot  of  other 
little  chaps."  So  far  as  he  knew  he  was  still  in  it. 

"Our  church.  He's  an  Episcopalian,  Auntie!" 
Betty  had  added  hastily  and  hopefully. 

Evidently  he  neglected  his  religious  duties !  This 
was  very  bad,  she  said.  She  gave  herself  credit  for 
having  shown  him  up  on  that  point. 

This  was  only  a  sample  of  the  scenes  he  had 
passed  through  for  three  days.  He  had  gone  home 
with  Betty  feeling  like  a  well-bred  young  man  with 
prospects  and  a  happy  love-affair  to  be  consum- 
mated soon  in  the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony.  He 
had  gone  away  from  Culloden  the  victim  of  his 
own  temper,  outraged  at  having  been  made  to  ap- 
pear at  his  potential  worst  before  Betty. 

He  had  received  assurances  of  her  undying  love, 
and  that  nothing  they  said  would  make  the  least 
difference  to  her.  She  believed  in  him  and  she 


94  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

would  marry  him  as  he  wished,  very  soon.  He  had 
no  doubts  of  her.  But  this  picked-to-pieces  version 
of  himself  was  very  offensive. 

It  is  as  injurious  to  know  too  much  about  your- 
self as  it  is  to  know  too  much  about  your  neigh- 
bors. For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Cutmore  was  in 
danger  of  this  diminishing  knowledge.  So  far  he 
had  taken  himself  proudly  for  granted.  But  those 
people  had  drawn  a  line  across  him  somewhere,  sub- 
tracted about  half  of  the  sum  total,  divided  that  by 
the  limitations  and  faults  they  suspected  he  had 
until  he  found  himself  in  the  debit  column.  The 
glamour  was  gone  and  the  high  happiness  of  love. 
Love  was  not  the  joyful,  fearless  thing  he  and 
Betty  had  conceived  it  to  be.  It  was  a  frightful 
obligation  to  be  financed  by  hard  labor  and  a  sys- 
tem of  petty  bookkeeping.  Those  people,  without 
knowing  of  his  debts,  had  contrived  to  remind  him 
of  these  debts  like  sins  in  the  dark  against  Betty. 
He  had  been  made  to  feel  that  he  was  a  dangerous 
and  doubtful  investment  the  Marshall  family  were 
about  to  be  forced  to  make,  due  entirely  to  the  fact 
that  he  had  taken  an  unwarranted  advantage  in 
winning  Betty's  affections.  What  did  the  family 
have  to  do  with  it1?  That  was  what  he  wanted  to 
know!  He  was  not  marrying  the  family.  If  ever 
Betty  was  safely  married  to  him  he  would  show 
her  family  a  thing  or  two!  This  was  a  sort  of 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  95 

promissory  note  he  made  to  them.  And  he  was  the 
man  to  pay  such  notes  in  full. 

He  was  still  at  work  when  Puckle  left  the  office 
that  afternoon.  Puckle  was  in  the  habit  of  going 
out  early  now.  He  played  golf  earnestly  for  the 
same  reason  that  Cutmore  worked  fiercely.  He  had 
something  important  to  forget. 

What  you  are  is  not  always  apparent.  You  are 
controlled,  restrained,  even  disguised  by  the  con- 
ditions about  you.  But  some  day  a  little  thing 
happens,  so  unimportant  that  no  one  else  notices 
it,  but  it  touches  the  nerve  of  the  man  you  really 
are,  and  you  step  out  of  these  conditions,  you  cast 
aside  this  environment  as  if  it  were  a  mask  you  had 
worn,  and  you  show  forth  in  your  real  character. 

Something  like  this  had  happened  to  Cutmore 
at  Culloden.  He  had  always  lived  like  a  gentle- 
man on  a  plane  far  above  his  faults.  These  were 
the  leaves  he  shed  from  time  to  time  like  a  healthy 
growing  plant,  much  as  he  dropped  his  unpaid  bills 
into  the  waste-basket.  He  had  been  at  peace  with 
himself  and  in  love.  He  was  still  in  love,  but  he 
was  no  longer  at  peace  with  himself.  For  the  first 
time  he  had  been  identified  in  that  inquisition 
through  which  he  had  passed  at  Culloden,  with  his 
perversities.  He  had  been  stripped  of  some  cher- 
ished illusion  of  himself.  This  enraged  him.  His 
animosities  were  stirred.  He  longed  for  an  enemy. 
He  had  changed  natures.  He  had  become  vindic- 


96  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

tive.  Still  seated  at  his  desk  after  the  clerk  and 
stenographer  were  gone,  he  recalled  scores  he  had 
settled  in  the  past.  That  Clewes  girl.  A  fight  he 
had  with  a  man  in  his  class  at  Harvard.  A  diffi- 
culty with  a  squatter  which  amounted  to  a  feud 
that  year  he  spent  in  the  cabin  on  the  mountain. 
He  had  got  the  squatter.  He  felt  no  particular 
comfort  in  recalling  the  fact  that  the  man  had  not 
died  of  his  wounds.  This  was  the  one  red  incident 
in  that  silent  year  when  he  cooled  the  hot  fires  in 
him  reading  mystical  books,  having  near  converse 
with  the  unknown.  Then  he  went  back  blowing 
upon  the  embers  of  these  former  fires.  He  remem- 
bered a  certain  thing  that  happened  in  France.  His 
face  clinched  with  a  sort  of  white  rage.  If  he  ever 
saw  Hayden,  he  would  settle  that  score ! 

We  do  not  know  it,  but  we  are  associated  with 
men  like  that  every  day.  We  touch  elbows  with 
them  on  the  streets.  We  receive  them  without  fear 
into  the  closest  relations  of  life.  Men  who  have 
never  committed  a  crime,  but  who  carry  murder  in 
their  hearts  as  a  fixed  idea,  a  resort  of  the  imagina- 
tion. They  are  the  flaming  swords  that  we  do 
not  see.  They  are  gifted  with  a  curious  high  ex- 
cellence of  the  spirit  by  which  they  contemplate 
the  death  of  an  enemy,  or  even  of  a  friend's  enemy 
as  knights  of  old  performed  similar  deeds  which 
placed  their  names  in  epics. 

Cutmore  belonged  to  this  class.     He  was  a  re- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  97 

version  to  type.  He  had  been  born  with  an  accent 
over  his  head,  dangerously  gentle,  not  noisy,  but 
felt,  and  always  noticed.  His  silence  had  the  effect 
of  a  sharp  report.  He  had  a  puissant  heart  and 
he  had  the  mind  of  a  dagger.  His  conscience  was 
merely  his  fine  sentiments. 

He  frequently  dined  alone  at  the  Old  Hickory 
Club.  On  the  evening  of  this  day  he  appeared 
there  as  usual,  had  his  usual  table,  a  small  one  in 
the  corner  near  an  open  window,  and  he  ordered 
dinner  as  usual,  but  he  did  not  dine. 

Some  distance  away  there  was  another  larger 
table,  evidently  laid  for  a  party  of  five  guests  who 
had  not  yet  arrived.  Cutmore  noticed  this  table 
particularly  because  the  favors  represented  two 
tiny  army  rifles  crossed  before  each  plate.  Some- 
body was  entertaining  a  military  man,  he  supposed. 

Then  Towne  came  in  accompanied  by  Sarah 
Crombie;  Tovey  and  Margaret  Miller  followed. 
They  took  their  places  at  this  table,  one  seat  re- 
maining vacant  on  Towne's  left,  who  was  evidently 
the  host  of  this  party.  He  recalled  Betty's  pre- 
diction about  Sarah  and  Towne.  She  might  be 
right  after  all. 

He  was  about  to  go  over  and  speak  to  Sarah 
when  a  man  appeared  in  a  doorway  behind  Towne's 
table.  A  tall  man  with  a  military  bearing,  although 


98  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

he  wore  citizen's  clothes.  His  eyes  swept  the  room, 
then  he  caught  sight  of  Towne  and  advanced. 

"We  were  just  wondering,  Hay  den,  what  had 
become  of  you !"  that  gentleman  exclaimed. 

Cutmore  followed  him  with  a  stare.  So  Hayden 
was  back! 

When  you  have  definitely  resolved  upon  a  des- 
perate deed  the  devil  usually  hastens  to  afford  the 
opportunity. 

At  this  moment  the  waiter  brought  in  a  dish  and 
placed  it  before  Cutmore.  He  added  other  dishes 
and  a  salad.  Cutmore  remained  seated  stiffly  erect, 
napkin  across  his  knees,  one  hand  resting  on  the 
tablecloth,  the  fingers  of  which  constantly  opened 
and  shut,  a  nervous  motion,  disquieting  if  you  no- 
ticed it.  No  one  did  at  first  in  that  room  where 
probably  fifty  people  were  dining.  Then  some  one 
saw  it  and  nudged  his  neighbor.  The  tone  of  con- 
versation dropped  at  once  to  a  lower  key  between 
these  two.  Glances  passed  and  other  guests  be- 
came sibilant.  They  cast  curious  glances  at  Cut- 
more,  who  sat  like  the  capital  letter  of  a  dark  deed, 
his  eyes  fixed  in  a  cold,  implacable  stare  on  nothing 
in  particular,  the  long  fingers  of  his  hand  opening 
and  closing  and  then  remaining  closed  in  a  grip 
disagreeably  suggestive. 

But  the  quake  of  his  presence  did  not  reach  Hay- 
den  until  later.  Hayden  had  missed  him  in  that 
first  glance  he  cast  around  the  room  when  he  en- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  99 

tered.  Sarah  Crombie,  who  sat  opposite  him,  par- 
tially concealed  Cutmore.  He  was  very  much 
engaged  in  looking  at  Sarah.  He  was  making  him- 
self agreeable  to  this  young  woman.  He  was  pro- 
foundly unconscious  of  any  danger.  He  had  left 
that  sort  of  thing  behind  him  in  France.  He  was 
enjoying  himself. 

They  had  finished  the  soup,  the  fish,  the  meat 
course,  and  had  reached  the  salad  when  Sarah  bent 
her  head  to  say  something  in  an  aside  to  Tovey. 
Then  Hayden  caught  sight  of  Cutmore. 

That  fellow's  face  was  strangely  familiar,  he 
thought.  It  was  malignantly  familiar,  he  decided. 
Then  he  recalled  a  regrettable  incident  in  France. 
His  mind  stood  still  a  moment,  as  if  some  coward 
in  him  shuddered.  Then  he  took  courage.  He  had 
outlived  that  affair.  He  had  made  good.  Cut- 
more  could  not  afford  to  betray  him.  He  was  ready 
to  go  half-way,  more  than  half-way.  He  started  at 
once.  He  tried  Cutmore  with  a  bow.  Cutmore  let 
him  know  that  he  knew  it  was  intended  for  him  by 
refusing  to  return  it.  He  thought  possibly  Cut- 
more  had  failed  to  recognize  him  in  citizen's  clothes 
and  tried  it  again.  This  time  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  flare  in  Cutmore' s  face.  It  passed  like  a 
stroke  of  lightning  and  was  deadly. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  hour  Hayden  did 
did  not  measure  up  to  his  welcome-home  party.  A 


100  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

gravity  settled  on  him.  He  realized  with  increas- 
ing conviction  that  there  was  something  personal 
to  him  in  the  sizzling  silence  and  rigidity  of  that 
man  in  the  corner.  He  tried  to  reassure  himself 
with  the  fact  that  he  scarcely  knew  Cutmore,  there- 
fore no  reason  to  feel  as  he  felt.  But  his  discom- 
fort increased.  He  wanted  to  get  out  of  this  place. 
The  quicker  the  better.  Cutmore  was  becoming 
ominous,  like  a  calamity.  Hayden  labored  to  make 
himself  the  agreeable  hero  of  the  hour.  He  told  a 
story.  He  said,  in  reply  to  some  question  from 
Margaret  Miller,  that,  yes,  a  man  had  to  be  brave 
in  battle  whether  he  was  brave  or  not.  Every  word, 
he  felt,  passed  under  the  malignant  censorship  of 
Cutmore,  who  was  not  taking  his  food,  who  was 
apparently  waiting  for  something.  Well,  what  was 
he  waiting  for"? 

Finally  the  coffee  was  drunk,  chairs  pushed  back 
as  people  do  when  presently  they  will  rise  from 
the  table,  but  not  yet.  Hayden  saw  Cutmore 
thrust  his  chair  out,  move  his  knees  from  under  the 
table  at  the  moment  this  stir  began.  He  glanced 
behind  him,  and  saw  that  the  door  was  not  distant. 
He  would  excuse  himself  to  Towne  and  pass 
through  this  door  when  they  should  get  up.  For 
he  was  not  aware  of  the  fact  that  others  besides 
himself  were  watching  Cutmore,  that  the  room  was 
vibrant  with  suspense  of  some  kind. 

Sarah  Crombie  stood  up.     The  others  followed. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  101 

Hayden  was  about  to  make  his  excuses  to  Towne 
when  Cutmore  shot  out  from  his  corner  and  ad- 
vanced swiftly  between  the  intervening  tables,  every 
eye  in  the  room  on  him  and  his  gaze  fixed  upon 
Hayden. 

"Windy!"  Sarah  exclaimed  as  he  passed  her. 

He  did  not  hear;  he  had  already  reached  Hay- 
den. He  bent  forward  and  said  something.  Hay- 
den demurred. 

"Either  here  or  down  there,"  Cutmore  mur- 
mured so  gently  that  no  shadow  of  a  threat  sounded 
in  his  tones. 

"You  will  excuse  Captain  Hayden,  Towne,"  he 
said,  turning  to  Gussie.  "We  have  an  engagement. 
I  have  been  waiting  for  him." 

"Why,  of  course,  but — "  Towne  went  no  further 
with  what  he  was  about  to  say,  the  two  men  having 
passed  through  the  door,  Cutmore  walking  behind 
Hayden,  who  appeared  to  be  dazed  by  this  sudden 
engagement. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  Margaret 
exclaimed. 

Towne  said  he  never  did  know  what  to  think  of 
Cutmore  anyway.  Sarah  was  silent,  but  Tovey  re- 
minded them  that  these  two  had  been  in  the  same 
regiment.  They  probably  had  things  to  talk  over. 

Towne  said  it  was  strange  to  him  that  Hayden 
had  not  mentioned  such  an  engagement.  He  was 
irritated.  No  man  likes  to  be  deprived  of  his  hon- 


102  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

ored  guest  just  at  the  moment  when  he  plans  to 
parade  him  before  his  acquaintances. 

The  next  morning  Gussie  Towne  appeared  in 
Puckle's  office,  early,  at  an  hour  when  he  was 
usually  in  bed.  He  was  not  exactly  disheveled, 
but  he  was  not  groomed.  He  did  not  take  off  his 
coat  nor  sit  down  and  fling  his  leg  over  the  arm  of 
the  chair  as  usual.  He  halted  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  as  if  he  might  not  have  time  in  this  emergency 
to  make  the  remaining  distance.  He  wore  his  hat 
on  the  back  of  his  head;  his  expression  was  one  of 
explosive  excitement. 

"Morning,  Gussie,"  Puckle  said  with  a  glance 
that  immediately  returned  to  the  morning  paper. 

"Puckle,  have  you  seen  Cutmore  to-day?"  Towne 
demanded  without  taking  the  time  to  return  this 
salutation. 

"Not  yet,"  Puckle  answered,  still  absorbed  in 
what  he  was  reading. 

"Where  is  he*?"  Towne  demanded  importantly. 

"In  his  office,  I  suppose.  Want  to  see  him?" 
Puckle  returned. 

"I  do  not!"  in  tones  so  emphatic  that  they 
brought  charges  against  Cutmore. 

Puckle  laid  the  paper  aside. 

"Why  this  sudden  uncordial  interest  in  Cut- 
more?"  he  asked  mildly. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  103 

"I'll  bet  my  hat  that  he  is  not  in  his  office!" 
Towne  retorted. 

Puckle's  reply  was  to  press  the  button  under  the 
ledge  of  his  desk. 

Miss  Smith  entered. 

"Has  Mr.  Cutmore  come  in?"  Puckle  asked  her. 

Mr.  Cutmore  had  been  in  his  office  since  eight 
o'clock,  she  informed  him,  and  waited.  Was  there 
anything  else?  Apparently  not.  Mr.  Puckle  said 
he  would  see  Mr.  Cutmore  later,  not  now.  She 
withdrew,  without  deigning  to  cast  so  much  as  a 
look  at  Towne,  and  contrived  to  convey  this  oblit- 
eration of  his  presence  by  her  manner. 

The  moment  the  door  closed  after  her  Towne 
flung  himself  into  the  chair.  Evidently  Puckle 
knew  nothing.  It  was  his  duty  to  inform  him. 
Something  would  be  doing  presently.  Puckle  ought 
not  to  be  taken  by  surprise. 

He  told  Puckle  what  had  happened.  He  was  a 
very  indignant  man.  His  own  feelings  as  a  host 
had  been  outraged,  but  let  that  go!  The  sanctity 
of  the  club  had  been  violated,  and  a  guest  nearly 
murdered.  That  was  a  serious  matter.  The  base- 
ment of  that  institution  was  not  a  prize-fighters' 
ring — not  that  Cutmore  had  observed  the  Queens- 
bury  rules  so  far  as  he  could  learn  from  the  porter, 
who  was  the  only  witness.  He  thought  that  porter 
should  be  dismissed  for  not  giving  the  alarm  sooner. 
He  had  not  interfered,  and  he  had  allowed  Cut- 


104  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

more  to  escape,  leaving  Hayden  lying  there  uncon- 
scious and  bruised  to  a  pulp. 

These  were  the  bald  facts;  as  to  the  details  they 
would  come  later.  Hayden  was  in  no  condition  to 
talk  yet.  He  was  in  the  hospital  and  in  a  critical 
condition.  Puckle  listened,  keeping  his  eyes 
lowered.  He  asked  only  one  question.  He  wanted 
to  know  how  Cutmore  escaped. 

"How*?"  indignantly.  "Well,  he  seems  to  have 
taken  his  time  about  that.  The  porter  says  he  ac- 
tually made  him  brush  the  dust  from  his  clothes. 
Then  he  gave  the  fellow  a  quarter  and  walked 
out." 

The  porter  had  immediately  called  somebody  up- 
stairs. Then  the  stir  began,  he  said.  Altogether  it 
was  a  disgraceful  affair. 

Puckle's  manner  was  thoughtful,  but  non- 
committal. He  supposed  Cutmore' s  injuries  could 
not  be  serious,  he  said. 

Towne  replied  that  he  knew  nothing  of  that,  and 
cared  less. 

"But  I'll  tell  you,  Puckle,"  he  added,  about  to 
take  his  departure,  "that  man  is  a  dangerous  char- 
acter. Not  the  kind  of  person  to  tie  up  with.  He 
is  a  sort  of  intermittent  madman,  if  you  want  to 
know  what  I  think." 

Some  of  the  best  judges  of  character  in  this  world 
are  men  who  have  no  character  of  their  own. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  105 

Puckle  sat  frowning  parentally.  He  was  in  the 
position  of  an  indignant  father  who  has  begotten 
a  son  without  having  been  able  to  choose  the  kind 
of  son  he  wanted.  It  is  the  case  with  many  fathers. 
They  must  keep  kin  to  what  they  have  begotten,  a 
relation  which  frequently  entails  frightful  respon- 
sibilities and  no  rewards.  Left  to  his  own  judg- 
ment he  would  never  have  selected  Cutmore  as  his 
partner  in  the  practice  of  law.  He  would  have 
chosen  a  man  of  his  own  age,  and  of  a  different 
type  altogether.  But  now  for  some  anguished  rea- 
son he  was  becoming  attached  to  Cutmore;  he  ex- 
perienced a  sense  of  protection  toward  him.  He 
supposed  it  was  on  Betty's  account.  She  would 
need  it.  He  was  comforted  at  discovering  this  per- 
missible and  highly  honorable  relation  to  Betty. 
Poor  man!  he  was  no  astute  psychologist  himself; 
few  people  are.  Therefore  he  was  still  unaware 
of  his  rapidly  developing  interest  in  Cutmore,  a 
strange  fumbling  admiration  he  had  for  that  young 
man's  quality.  He  thought  Towne's  opinion  of 
Cutmore  was  only  justified  by  the  facts  under  pres- 
ent conditions.  Cutmore  would  not  have  been  re- 
garded as  a  madman  in  the  eighteenth  century,  but 
he  would  have  been  recognized  as  a  gallant  gentle- 
man. He  began  to  grin  as  a  certain  thought  oc- 
curred to  him.  He  had  a  living  antique  in  his 
young  law  partner,  endowed  with  modern  brains, 
but  retaining  the  spirit,  passions,  and  point  of  view 


106  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

of  men  long  since  relegated  to  the  past.  With  his 
annoyance  overlaid  by  this  whimsical  humor  he 
went  into  the  next  office  to  see  this  young  man. 

Cutmore  was  absorbed  in  reading  and  correcting 
some  typewritten  stuff,  and  did  not  immediately 
look  up.  Puckle  thought  he  had  never  seen  him 
sitting  stiffer  or  more  immaculately  fit.  He  might 
be  a  trifle  pale,  but  his  hand  was  steady.  And  not 
so  much  as  an  abrasion  on  him,  so  far  as  he  could  see. 

"Morning,  Windy!"  he  said  casually,  and 
flushed,  never  having  called  him  by  this  intimate 
name  before. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Puckle,"  Cutmore  returned, 
coming  to  his  feet. 

"Sit  down;  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  young  man," 
Puckle  said,  letting  himself  down  heavily  into  an- 
other chair. 

He  eyed  Cutmore  with  an  eye  designed  to  pro- 
duce an  involuntary  expression  of  guilt,  some  color 
or  confusion  of  manner. 

Cutmore  returned  this  thrust  of  a  gaze  with  a 
level  stare,  politely  interrogative. 

Puckle  lit  a  cigar.  He  perceived  that  this  would 
be  a  difficult  case  to  win. 

"You  were  at  the  club  last  night*?"  he  began 
tentatively. 

"I  dined  there." 

"See  Captain  Hayden?' 

"He  was  there,  yes." 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  107 

"Know  him?' 

"I  never  knew  him  at  all  here,"  Cutmore  an- 
swered, "but  later  in  France;  not  personally  then, 
only  his  record.  He  was  a  captain  in  our  regi- 
ment." 

"What  have  you  against  him?" 

"Nothing  now,  sir." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is*?" 

"I  do  not." 

"He  is  in  the  hospital.  His  condition  is  serious; 
concussion  of  the  brain  and  internal  injuries.  He 
may  die." 

"He  will  recover,  sir." 

"And  give  you  trouble.  Are  you  prepared  to 
defend  yourself  in  the  courts'?" 

"He  will  be  the  last  one  to  do  that,  sir.  He  will 
probably  leave  Millidge." 

Puckle  digested  this  information.  He  was  re- 
lieved, but  he  felt  obliged  to  talk  to  Cutmore.  He 
talked.  He  reminded  him  that  a  man  who  repre- 
sented the  law  was  supposed  to  keep  it,  not  break 
it.  It  was  undignified  to  make  himself  liable  to 
prosecution. 

Cutmore  showed  no  evidence  of  contrition  or  em- 
barrassment. He  was  sitting  sidewise  to  Puckle, 
practicing  a  sort  of  polite  but  impervious  silence. 

"Now,  to  be  frank,  what  possible  grievance  could 
you  have  against  Hayden  to  justify  your  perform- 


108  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

ance  last  night*?"  Puckle  demanded,  determined  to 
know. 

"To  tell  you  would  be  harder  on  him  than  the 
punishment  he  had  from  me."  Cutmore  answered, 
and  then  went  on  after  a  pause. 

"We  were  attached  to  a  British  regiment  in 
Flanders.  It  was  in  December  of  1917;  very  cold. 
Snow  a  foot  deep  on  the  ground.  There  had  been 
fighting  for  a  week  around  one  of  those  little  towns. 
It  fell  first  to  us,  then  to  the  Germans.  That  day 
we  lost  it.  That  night  Hayden — he  was  a  lieu- 
tenant then — sent  me  with  a  detail  to  locate  a 
certain  point  in  the  enemy's  line.  That  was  a  mis- 
take. He  had  no  right  to  give  this  order.  Our 
troops  were  to  fall  back  at  once.  I  suppose  he  did 
not  know.  But  it  was  his  business  to  know.  The 
Germans  were  already  advancing.  They  sur- 
rounded us  out  there  in  that  pit  of  horrors.  To  this 
day  nothing  has  been  heard  of  the  seven  men  with 
me.  They  were  killed.  I  was  left  for  dead  in  a 
shell-hole.  I  was  there  three  days  before  the  Ger- 
mans were  driven  back  and  some  ambulance  man 
picked  me  up.  I  had  a  shattered  leg  and  a  shrap- 
nel wound  in  the  shoulder.  And  I  had  been  gassed. 

"But  for  this  I  should  have  been  court-martialed," 
he  went  on.  "Hayden  positively  denied  having 
sent  me  on  that  detail.  He  swore  that  I  had  gone 
without  orders.  He  saved  his  skin.  I  lay  in  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  109 

hospital  three  months.  What  with  the  gas  and  the 
wound  in  my  shoulder,  I  developed  pneumonia. 
But  I  recovered.  I  expected  to  go  back  to  my  com- 
pany. I  particularly  wanted  to  get  back  there  and 
attend  to  Hayden.  He  must  have  known,  for  I 
was  sent  home  with  the  first  convalescents  who 
reached  this  country.  He  managed  that.  I  never 
saw  him  again  until  to-night.  I  should  have  killed 
him." 

"You  should  have  reported  him  to  the  proper 
military  authorities,"  Puckle  retorted. 

"The  seven  men  who  might  have  witnessed 
against  him  had  been  killed.  I  was  a  non-com- 
missioned officer.  My  word  would  not  have  been 
taken  against  his  word.  Many  a  court-martial  sat 
in  France  to  protect  officers  like  Hayden.  They 
were  the  traitors  in  our  own  lines  who  sometimes 
betrayed  their  men  when  it  was  necessary  to  save 
their  rank  or  reputation. 

"Some  private  ought  to  write  a  history  of  the 
American  Expeditionary  Forces  in  France.  It 
would  revolutionize  military  discipline  in  this 
country,"  he  concluded. 

"Yes,  I  have  no  doubt  it  would,"  Puckle  agreed 
thoughtfully.  "But  your  private  would  never  find 
a  publisher  for  his  book." 

"No,  he  would  not.  That  is  why  I  attended  to 
Hayden.  You  hear  very  little  about  it,  but  a 
guilty  officer  frequently  meets  similar  justice  when 


110  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

he  gets  back  here  and  is  discharged  from  the  army. 
It  will  go  on  for  years,  private  court-martials,  con- 
ducted by  privates,"  he  concluded  grimly. 

"Well,  the  War  is  over;  time  to  forget  it," 
Puckle  said. 

"Only  since  last  night  for  me,"  Cutmore  an- 
swered. 

Puckle  stood  up.  He  laid  one  hand  on  the  desk, 
bent  over,  resting  his  huge  bulk  upon  this  arm,  un- 
buckled the  fist  of  his  right  hand  in  a  gesture  which 
enclosed  Cutmore  like  a  parenthesis. 

"Windy,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  what  destroys 
most  men  who  fail  to  make  good?  It  is  not  their 
sins.  A  strong  man  can  always  digest  his  sins.  It 
is  some  weakness,  inherent,  against  which  they  fail 
to  take  precautions.  Few  men,  for  example,  are 
murderers  by  nature.  It  is  a  nervous  affection,' mur- 
der is.  You  want  to  pay  more  attention  to  your 
nervous  system.  It  was  Hayden  this  time,  but  it 
might  be  anybody,  any  little  annoyance,  that  would 
set  you  afire.  You  have  what  is  called  tempera- 
ment. It  is  a  disease  of  the  nerves.  Makes  you 
irresponsible  and  dangerous.  Jury  might  clear  you, 
but  it  would  cost  you  your  liberty  and  bring  sor- 
row on — others.  You  know  what  I  mean." 

Cutmore  gave  no  sign  of  this  knowledge.  But 
he  stood  up  as  Puckle  turned  to  go.  This  was  a 
sort  of  tribute  he  sometimes  made  to  Puckle  when 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  111 

that  great  old  ruffian  delivered  himself  of  a  fine 
sentiment.  Otherwise  he  remained  seated  on  a 
level  with  his  senior  partner,  and  frequently  made 
Puckle  feel  that  he  was  by  some  strange  keen 
quality  of  the  spirit  slightly  above  his  level. 


PART  TWO 

CHAPTER  VI 

For  several  days  Captain  Hayden  remained  in 
a  state  of  painful  silence  at  the  Millidge  Hospital, 
with  Mr.  Charles  Augustus  Towne  in  constant  at- 
tendance. He  and  Hayden  were  old  friends.  Be- 
sides he  wanted  to  know  more  about  this  regret- 
table affair  between  him  and  Cutmore.  He  sup- 
posed that  presently  Hayden  would  have  recovered 
sufficiently  to  give  his  version  of  it.  He  attrib- 
uted Hayden's  reticence  to  the  best  motives — and 
to  shock.  Meanwhile  he  vended  this  scandal.  He 
told  every  man  of  his  acquaintance  what  he 
thought  of  Cutmore,  and  what  he  suspected — the 
worst.  He  had  an  air  of  importance.  He  was  full 
of  this  thing.  He  would  make  it  his  business  to 
see  Hayden  through  it,  and  so  forth  and  so  on. 
He  was  so  impressed  with  his  own  views  and 
blinded  by  his  sympathies  that  he  failed  to  notice 
the  silence  with  which  men  at  the  club  listened  to 
what  he  had  to  say. 

But  it  was  irritating  the  way  old  Turner,  one 
of  the  governors  of  the  club,  changed  the  subject 
when  he  suggested  that  some  sort  of  action  should 
be  taken  in  regard  to  Cutmore.  For  his  part  he 

113 


114  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

objected  to  ruffians  as  members  of  "Old  Hickory." 
Turner  said  that  Martin  Puckle  had  already  dis- 
cussed the  matter  with  him.  But  he  did  not  so 
much  as  hint  what  Puckle  had  said.  It  was  a  week 
later  before  Towne  realized  that  Puckle  had  spiked 
his  wheel.  He  had  simply  said  in  his  briefest  man- 
ner at  a  meeting  of  the  governors  of  the  club  that 
while  it  was  regrettable  that  Hayden  got  his  punish- 
ment there,  he  had  deserved  it,  and  he  hoped  the 
matter  would  be  dropped  along  with  Hay  den's 
name. 

One  day  Puckle  met  Towne  on  the  links. 
Usually  it  was  the  other  way,  Towne  met  Puckle, 
but  on  this  day  Towne  held  aloof.  He  was  not 
playing  golf.  He  was  seated  on  the  terrace  before 
the  club-house  at  a  table  having  something.  Puckle 
strolled  up.  He  had  the  glitter  of  a  smile  in  his 
eye,  and  a  warped  grin  on  one  side  of  his  mouth. 
"Hello,  Gussie!  How's  your  friend  Hayden  *?"  he 
asked  cheerfully. 

Towne  replied  that  he  did  not  know  how  Hay- 
den was.  He  did  not  even  know  where  he  was.  He 
had  left  the  hospital.  Besides,  he  added  coolly,  he 
hoped  Puckle  and  everybody  else  knew  that  he, 
Towne,  was  not  Hay  den's  keeper. 

"On  the  contrary,  we  rather  thought  you  set  up 
to  be  something  of  that  kind,"  Puckle  retorted. 

Towne  said  he  didn't  see  why.  He  was  queru- 
lous about  this  injustice. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  115 

Puckle,  standing  with  his  feet  far  apart,  laid 
himself  back  on  his  haunches,  placed  one  hand  on 
each  hip,  and  poked  his  head  out  at  Towne  much 
as  a  turtle  does. 

"Gussie,"  he  said,  still  grinning,  "you  missed 
your  cue." 

"Meaning*?"  Towne  snapped. 

"Well,  when  a  fellow  lets  another  man  beat  him 
up  as  Cutmore  beat  Hayden,  and  shows  no  fight, 
you  may  know  there's  a  reason,"  Puckle  told  him. 

"And  when  he  skips  out  before  the  doctors  take 
the  sticking-plaster  off  him,  it  indicates  that  the 
reason  is  not  complimentary,"  Puckle  continued. 
"I  was  expecting  him  to  fly  by  night,"  he  added. 

"You  knew  he  was  gone*?" 

"Before  you  did,  Gussie.  I  made  it  my  business 
to  keep  up  with  Hayden." 

"Where  is  he*?"  Towne  asked  bitterly. 

"In  strict  retirement  for  the  present.  But  don't 
worry ;  he  will  show  up  somewhere  after  his  wounds 
heal  and  this  affair  blows  over.  Hayden  is  one  of 
those  fellows  who  seek  the  spotlights  as  bugs  do 
electric  globes  on  a  dark  night.  You  will  hear  of 
him  leading  a  parade  somewhere  before  long — but 
not  here !"  he  snickered,  moving  off. 

Towne  pushed  back  his  chair  and  accompanied 
him.  Under  these  circumstances  it  was  better  to  be 
seen  with  Puckle.  He  was  smart  about  that.  Once 


116  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

he  discovered  the  right  side  of  the  fence,  he  climbed 
over  and  showed  off  on  that  side.  Once  he  knew 
which  man  was  on  top  in  a  situation,  he  clove  to 
that  man.  Puckle  was  a  very  influential  neutral 
in  this  situation,  he  suddenly  realized,  so  he  saun- 
tered toward  the  links  with  him. 

"By  the  way,  Gussie,"  Puckle  said  after  they  had 
gone  some  distance  in  silence,  "if  I  were  in  your 
place,"  his  tone  intimating  that  Gussie's  place  had 
recently  become  perilous,  "I  should  not  discuss 
Windham  Cutmore,  not  critically.  Cutmore  is  a 
gentle,  peaceable  man,  but " 

Towne  cut  across  what  Puckle  was  saying  with 
a  look  expressing  emphatic  denial  of  Cutmore's 
peaceable  qualities. 

"Well,  he  is,"  Puckle  insisted,  answering  this 
glance,  "but,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  he  is  inflam- 
mable, remarkably  so.  You  may  kick  a  dud  and 
survive,  but  it  is  often  fatal  to  even  play  with  a 
real  live,  peaceable  bomb.  Now  you  have  been 
scratching  matches  on  Cutmore's  back.  It  is  not 
safe!" 

Towne  professed  to  be  indignantly  ungrateful 
for  this  advice.  He  could  attend  to  him,  in  case 
Cutmore  needed  attending  to,  or  words  to  that  ef- 
fect. But  from  that  day  he  became  scrupulously 
innocent  of  Cutmore.  He  even  surrendered  the 
plan  he  had  of  running  down  to  Culloden  to  see 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  117 

Betty  Marshall.  A  flirtation  with  Betty  was 
scarcely  worth  the  risk  involved. 

Millidge  settled  and  simmered  in  the  torrid  heat 
of  July.  The  people  who  usually  went  away  to 
escape  it,  went.  Puckle  took  a  vacation,  his  first 
one.  He  was  in  need  of  a  change.  He  left  Cut- 
more  in  charge  of  the  firm's  business. 

It  was  now  decided  that  he  and  Betty  would  be 
married  late  in  September,  sundry  Marshalls  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding. 

Betty  wrote  to  her  "Dear  Windy"  every  day,  giv- 
ing him  the  news  of  love,  which  was  the  only  news 
of  interest  to  them.  They  exchanged  volumes 
about  love  as  if  nothing  had  ever  been  written  on 
this  subject  before.  Windy' s  letters  were  shorter, 
but  it  can  be  said  of  him  that  he  stuck  closer  to 
the  text.  Betty  was  sometimes  a  trifle  vague,  as 
if  she  grasped  timidly  and  fearfully  at  this  strange 
new  happiness,  which  she  said  was  a  miracle  be- 
cause she  and  Windy  had  created  it  for  themselves, 
merely  by  recognizing  each  other,  although  they 
had  been  strangers  until  then. 

You  must  know  a  thing  or  two  in  order  to  infer 
what  kind  of  a  wife  a  girl  will  make  judging  by 
the  letters  she  writes  before  you  marry  her.  The 
more  lovers  she  has  had  the  more  practice  she  has 
had  in  translating  love  into  the  eloquent  written 
word.  The  least  faithful  of  them  may  have  a  gift 


118  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

for  interpreting  the  finest  scriptures  of  love.  Or 
she  may  be  a  woman  whose  emotions  and  passions 
are  mental  rather  than  real,  and  you  marry  her  only 
to  discover  that  you  have  joined  yourself  to  a  par- 
ticularly cold  and  unendurable  woman.  The  most 
faithful  and  vital  women  write  of  love  with  no  wis- 
dom of  words  at  all.  And  sometimes  one  richly 
endowed  and  profoundly  intelligent  may  show  a 
primer  mind  when  it  comes  to  confessing  her  heart 
in  a  love-letter.  Betty  surely  was  one  of  these. 
She  told  her  lover  every  day  how  dearly,  dearly  she 
loved  him,  which  was  all  she  could  say  positively,  so 
she  repeated  it.  She  said  also  that  she  was  count- 
ing the  days  until  he  came  again,  which  meant  the 
same  thing.  And  would  he  be  down  to  see  her  this 
week-end1?  In  which  case  she  could  begin  to  count 
the  hours  until  he  came,  which  also  meant  the  same 
thing,  that  she  loved  him  dearly  and  so  forth. 

Sometimes  she  would  announce  mysteriously  that 
she  had  something  very  important  to  tell  him  that 
could  not  be  written.  When  he  hurried  to  Cullo- 
den  spurred  by  curiosity  and  anxiety  to  know  what 
this  was  she  had  to  tell  so  important,  Betty  would 
make  of  herself  an  adorable  little  figure,  flushed, 
dewy-eyed,  embarrassed,  very  diffident,  until  he 
must  plead  with  her  to  know  what  this  confidence 
was.  Then  she  would  yield.  It  was  nothing  very 
much,  only  writing  it  seemed  so — inadequate. 
There  were  times  when  she  felt  that  she  must  tell 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  119 

him  how  much  she  loved  him.  It  was  not  just  love, 
she  said;  it  was  something  else,  very  difficult  to  say 
in  words.  But  it  was  this,  that  she  understood  him, 
she  had  found  him !  She  did  not  think  Windy  knew 
much  about  her  dearer  Windy,  but  she  meant  to 
show  him  that  man.  Now,  did  he  understand1?  He 
did  not,  but  he  kissed  her  and  was  peacefully  at 
rest  in  this  happiness  she  made  of  herself  for  him. 

Now  and  then  in  an  aside,  so  to  speak,  she  gave 
him  news  of  the  family,  those  people  whom  he  re- 
sented because  they  were  still  a  part  of  her  life  and 
not  cordial  to  him.  She  said  that  Aunt  Theodosia 
was  implacable.  But  she  no  longer  cared  what 
Aunt  Theodosia  thought.  Some  people,  she  sup- 
posed, "were  born  proof-readers  of  other  people's 
characters.  They  read  it  to  find  the  mistakes,  the 
deeds  left  out,  the  bad  grammar  of  just  living." 

Cutmore's  eye  glinted  at  this  sentence.  His  Betty 
was  no  fool,  mark  you  that!  She  could  think 
and  say  a  thing  so  it  fitted  the  thought  like  a  fine 
glove  when  she  chose  to  take  the  trouble. 

In  another  letter  she  referred  tenderly  to  her 
mother.  She  wrote  that  her  mother  was  patheti- 
cally gentle  and  tender  with  her  these  days,  "as  if 
presently  I  should  be  going  to  die!"  She  wondered 
if  they  all  felt  that  way  when  their  daughters  were 
about  to  be  married.  "Mothers,"  she  thought,  "be- 
longed to  the  Rock-of-Ages  type.  They  were  al- 
ways there  whatever  happened." 


120  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

After  Puckle  was  gone  on  his  golfing  vacation 
she  wrote  that  "father"  was  becoming  reconciled, 
especially  since  Mr.  Puckle  had  entrusted  Windy 
with  so  much  important  business.  He,  father,  had 
said  that  it  was  a  "good  sign." 

Cutmore  resented  the  idea  of  Puckle' s  becoming 
the  zodiac  sign  of  his  worth,  but  he  kept  that  to 
himself.  However,  when  Betty  wrote  how  sorry 
she  was  for  his  having  so  much  work  to  do,  and  how 
she  supposed  he  must  "miss  dear  Mr.  Puckle,"  he 
wrote  in  reply  that  he  was  doing  no  more  than 
usual,  and  so  far  from  missing  Puckle,  his  absence 
was  a  relief.  He  admired  the  man,  he  said,  but 
when  Puckle  was  in  his  office  he,  Windy,  had  the 
uncomfortable  feeling  of  being  in  a  stall  next  to  an 
animal  that  pawed,  kicked  the  door,  snorted,  fre- 
quently got  out  and  erupted  violently  among  the 
clerks  in  the  front  office.  Probably  Betty  did  not 
know  that  her  dear  Mr.  Puckle  trumpeted  when  he 
blew  his  nose,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  in  the  street 
below.  And  that  he  seemed  to  keep  this  nose  just 
to  blow  it.  Moreover,  he  had  a  hectoring  temper 
at  times,  when  he  raised  his  voice  like  a  menace, 
not  to  him,  of  course.  Still  it  was  disagreeable  to 
hear  him  doing  it.  He  hoped  she  would  under- 
stand that  he  admired  Puckle' s  real  worth  as  much 
as  any  one,  but  she  might  as  well  know  that  he  was 
a  "hobnail  hurricane"  in  the  office  at  times,  and  not 
agreeable  to  a  man  with  polite  nerves. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  121 

There  was  no  need  of  Betty's  idealizing  a  man 
like  Puckle,  he  said  to  himself,  because  when  she 
knew  him  better  it  would  only  result  in  disappoint- 
ment. 

One  thing  impressed  Cutmore  as  remarkable:  no 
matter  how  exhausted  he  was  from  a  hard  day's 
work  he  felt  his  strength  and  energy  return  the 
moment  he  started  a  letter  to  Betty.  He  was  no 
longer  tired;  he  was  refreshed.  Early  in  August  he 
began  suddenly  to  reason  from  this  premise.  Love 
was  an  inspiration.  It  revived  his  faculties  and  his 
spirit  the  moment  he  applied  himself  to  even  think- 
ing in  the  terms  of  Betty.  On  the  other  hand  he 
found  it  increasingly  difficult  to  concentrate  on  his 
work.  Well,  then,  the  sooner  he  had  Betty  by  his 
side  forever  the  better  it  would  be  for  him.  Also 
for  Betty.  She  had  written  him  how  busy  she  was, 
getting  ready,  making  things  for  his  bride.  A  pretty 
way  to  say  it,  but  he  was  concerned  chiefly  for  the 
bride,  not  these  "things."  She  was  working  her 
dear  self  to  a  frazzle.  It  was  foolish,  all  this  fuss 
and  preparation.  Why  were  not  people  allowed  to 
act  naturally4?  When  they  loved  and  needed  each 
other  why  not  just  marry  and  have  done  with  it? 

Having  reached  this  conclusion,  he  took  the  train 
for  Culloden,  although  it  was  Wednesday,  the  mid- 
dle of  the  week. 

Betty  was  astonished  and  delighted  to  see  him. 
How  had  he  managed  to  get  away  from  the  office1? 


122  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

He  told  her,  and  why  he  had  come.  She  was 
aghast.  She  said  that  they  could  not  possibly  be 
married  now. 

"Why?"  he  wanted  to  know. 

There  was  a  number  of  reasons. 

'Tor  one  thing,  our  engagement  has  not  been 
announced,"  she  said. 

"No  sensible  reason  for  taking  the  whole  world 
into  our  confidence  at  such  a  time,"  he  replied. 

She  referred  to  her  wedding-gown.  It  had  not 
been  made. 

Any  frock  would  become  a  wedding-dress  if  she 
should  be  married  in  it,  he  answered. 

Then  there  was  the  family;  they  would  never 
consent.  This  was  her  last  ditch.  He  would  ex- 
plain matters  to  them,  he  told  her.  He  could  cer- 
tainly make  them  understand. 

He  explained.  They  did  understand,  but  they 
were  obdurate.  Mrs.  Marshall  said  it  was  unthink- 
able and  undignified,  a  hasty  marriage.  Mr.  Mar- 
shall told  him  that  in  weddings  women  must  have 
their  way.  Marriage  was  a  feminine  institution  to 
start  with.  He  thought  Windy  had  better  go  back 
to  his  office  and  attend  strictly  to  business  until 
Puckle  returned. 

Windy  said  that  was  what  he  ought  to  do  and 
wanted  to  do,  but  that  he  would  remain  in  Cullo- 
den  until  he  could  take  Betty  with  him.  He  had 
very  comfortable  quarters  at  the  hotel. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  123 

During  the  month  of  July,  Martin  Puckle  was 
making  the  round  of  those  Summer  resorts  in  the 
"Skyland"  country  of  North  Carolina  where  the 
best  golfing  was  to  be  had.  He  was  enjoying  him- 
self. He  felt  fit  for  the  first  time  since,  well,  since 
that  night  in  May  when  he  saw  Betty  Marshall. 
This  change  had  put  him  back  on  his  feet  as  a 
cheerful  celibate  man.  He  heard  from  Cutmore 
occasionally.  Things  were  going  smoothly  in  the 
office.  Cutmore  was  an  efficient  young  fellow. 
After  all  it  had  not  been  a  blunder  to  take  him  on. 
However,  he  would  have  one  more  week  of  golf  and 
then  get  back  to  Millidge.  There  were  cases  to 
prepare  before  the  September  term  of  court. 

His  mail  from  Millidge  did  not  reach  Linnville, 
where  he  was  now  stopping,  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon. One  Sunday,  the  third  of  August,  he  came 
in  from  the  links  at  six  o'clock.  The  clerk  handed 
him  his  key,  one  letter,  and  a  bulkily  rolled  paper 
which  he  recognized  as  the  Sunday  edition  of  the 
Millidge  Ledger.  Somebody  had  been  thoughtful 
enough  to  send  it.  Then  he  noticed  that  it  had 
been  addressed  in  Gussie  Towne's  scraggly  hand- 
writing. Towne  always  wrote  as  if  half  his  letters 
were  hilariously  drunk.  The  letter  was  from  Cut- 
more,  the  usual  week-end  account  of  business,  he 
supposed,  as  he  thrust  it  into  his  pocket  and  climbed 
the  stairs  to  his  room. 

He  made  himself  comfortable  there,  which  meant 


124  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

taking  off  his  coat  and,  especially,  his  collar.  Never 
for  one  moment  in  his  life  had  he  been  really  com- 
fortable with  a  collar  buttoned  around  his  neck. 
Then  he  ripped  the  wrapper  from  the  Ledger  and 
dropped  it  on  the  floor  beside  a  big  chair,  much  as 
one  tosses  a  pitchfork  of  roughage  in  the  rack  of  a 
stall.  Most  men  take  their  news  that  way.  Then 
he  slumped  into  the  chair  and  laid  his  legs  across 
the  bottom  of  another  chair.  He  would  have  a 
smoke  and  a  look  at  the  Ledger  before  he  dressed 
for  dinner.  The  long,  black  cigar  exactly  matched 
his  black,  bristling  hair  and  brows,  his  ruddy  jowls, 
his  thick,  pursed-up  lips,  and  his  snarling  nose. 

He  went  through  the  Ledger,  section  by  section, 
like  an  old  horse  "stemming"  his  fodder,  choosing 
the  news  he  wanted,  tossing  the  remains  on  the  other 
side  of  his  chair,  where  they  lay  scattered  in  dis- 
reputable confusion. 

When  he  picked  up  the  "Comic  Sunday  Supple- 
ment" there  still  remained  one  section  upon  the 
floor  on  the  right-hand  side  of  his  chair,  folded 
neatly,  with  only  its  advertisements  showing. 

Like  most  American  men,  Puckle  had  a  youth- 
ful, grotesque  sense  of  humor  to  which  the  colored 
crank-sided  wit  of  a  "funny  page"  appealed  strong- 
ly. The  corners  of  his  eyes  crinkled ;  a  grin  worked 
shrewdly  at  his  lips,  showing  the  cigar  bitten  firmly 
between  his  teeth,  as  he  read  these  cynical  legends 
of  American  life.  He  finished  to  the  last  curled 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  125 

'possum-tailed  joke,  cast  the  thing  from  him,  and 
reached  lazily  for  that  other  section.  He  unfolded 
it  and  stared.  He  lifted  his  legs  from  the  chair 
slowly  as  if  these  legs  had  suddenly  become  old 
and  painful  to  him.  He  took  the  cigar  from  his 
mouth,  laid  the  paper  across  his  knees,  bent  over, 
and  continued  to  stare  at  two  pictures  on  the  front 
page  devoted  to  wedding  announcements  and  so- 
ciety news  in  general.  He  merely  glanced  at  the 
clean,  clear-cut  profile  of  Windham  Cutmore.  The 
eyes  of  the  girl  seemed  to  return  his  gaze,  unmoved, 
grave  and  sweet,  as  if  she  knew  him  well  and  trusted 
him  implicitly  no  matter  what  sort  of  chances  she 
took  with  Fate, 

Beneath  these  pictures,  surrounded  with  senti- 
mental heart-lines,  there  was  this  brief  exposition  of 
the  facts  which  linked  them  there:  "Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Windham  Cutmore,  nee  Miss  Betty  Marshall  of 
Culloden,  news  of  whose  marriage  came  to-day  as 
a  surprise  to  their  many  friends  in  Millidge." 

There  was  more  of  it,  telling  of  the  bride's  popu- 
larity as  a  visiting  belle,  giving  Windham  Cutmore 
all  his  distinctions,  including  the  one  of  being  a 
rising  young  lawyer  of  the  firm  of  Puckle  &  Cut- 
more.  The  young  couple  would  be  at  home  to  their 
friends  at  such  and  such  a  number  on  Princess  Ave- 
nue, which  was  the  number  of  the  old  Cutmore 
residence. 


126  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

But  Puckle  did  not  read  all  this.  He  felt  sud- 
denly old  and  tired.  He  did  not  dress  nor  go  down 
to  dinner.  He  continued  to  sit  there  after  the 
paper  had  fallen  from  his  knees,  after  the  stir  and 
confusion  of  the  hotel  had  dwindled  to  silence  and 
the  lights  had  gone  out  and  the  stars  gazed  tran- 
quilly through  his  window. 

We  die  many  times  in  the  course  of  this  life,  and 
no  one  suspects  how  many  lives  each  of  us  has  buried 
in  this  secret  place,  covered  with  the  thickening 
dust  of  dearer  hopes  that  failed,  passionate  desires 
that  died  with  us,  because  the  next  morning  we  show 
forth  as  usual,  barbered  and  shaved,  clean  shirt, 
stiff  collar,  or  dressed  in  a  becoming  frock,  with  a 
trifle  more  powder  than  usual  on  our  noses. 

Puckle  passed  through  one  of  these  secret  trage- 
dies that  night.  He  admitted  to  himself  for  the 
first  time  that  he  loved  Betty  with  a  passion  that 
had  shaken  him  and  changed  his  whole  nature.  He 
attended  the  obsequies  of  this  Puckle.  He  mourned 
not  for  him,  the  confounded  old  fool !  but  for  Betty, 
so  young,  fair,  and  sweet.  What  had  she  done  to 
herself?  He  realized  now  that  all  this  time  he  had 
hoped  she  would  not  marry  Cutmore,  that  some- 
thing would  happen  to  prevent  this  marriage. 

What  strange  courage  women  had!  he  thought 
with  a  sigh.  They  dared  without  fear  to  link  their 
lives  to  the  lives  of  men  whom  every  other  man 
feared.  Good  women  especially,  he  believed,  were 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  127 

all  born  cheerfully  blind  to  fate  even  when  fearful 
destinies  threatened  them. 

He  remembered  saying  something  at  the  Crom- 
bies'  one  evening  about  that.  He  had  been  talking 
to  Sarah  Crombie;  a  banal  thing  about  the  blind- 
ness of  love.  Betty  came  in  just  then,  heard  him 
telling  Sarah  this.  She  stood  back  from  them, 
waiting  for  this  blasphemy  to  be  finished.  Then, 

"It  is  you  who  are  blind.  The  eyes  of  love  are 
the  only  eyes  that  do  see,"  she  said. 

He  recalled  the  smile  on  her  lips,  as  if  wisdom 
had  become  a  rose;  the  singing  light  in  her  blue 
eyes,  the  deepening  color,  the  sweet  valor  of  love 
in  a  girl's  face. 

He  groaned  at  the  recollection  of  this  vision. 

He  arose  and  prepared  for  bed  without  turning 
on  the  light.  When  a  man  undresses  in  the  dark 
it  is  a  sign  that  he  is  either  drunk  or  very  sad 
about  himself. 

He  did  not  sleep.  Somewhere  between  dawn  and 
daylight  he  became  a  trifle  less  miserable.  He  de- 
cided that  he  could  still  stand  by  Betty.  Some 
one  must.  Cutmore  would  die  for  her,  he  had  no 
doubt  of  it,  but  what  else  Cutmore  might  do  no 
oracle  of  the  gods  could  reveal.  This  flashup  with 
Betty  at  the  marriage  altar  when  no  such  thing  was 
contemplated  when  he  left  Millidge  was  character- 
istic of  Cutmore.  He  could  not  keep  an  even  gait. 
He  had  to  skip  the  intervening  space  every  time. 


128  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

He  aimed  and  took  a  shot  at  what  he  pleased  or 
wanted.  This  time  he  had  got  Betty.  Puckle  ad- 
mitted that  he  himself  had  been  brought  down  early 
in  May  when  Cutmore  produced  and  promoted 
himself  as  his  law  partner.  Strange  to  say,  he 
felt  no  resentment  toward  him.  You  do  not  hold 
elements  responsible  for  the  weather  they  produce. 
You  simply  endure  the  weather.  Cutmore  was 
more  of  an  element  than  he  was  a  responsible  human 
being.  This  was  what  Puckle  thought  about  him. 
Then  he  went  back  and  thought  of  "poor  little 
Betty." 

Why  so  many  people  think  in  terms  of  solemn 
regret  and  prophetic  sorrow  of  a  nice,  gentle  girl 
when  she  marries,  to  please  herself,  no  one  knows; 
but  they  do. 

Puckle  had  expected  to  return  to  Millidge  pres- 
ently, but  now  he  decided  to  lengthen  his  vacation 
long  enough  to  pull  himself  together  again.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  done  nothing  else  for 
the  past  three  months.  Every  time  he  adjusted 
himself  to  a  situation  Cutmore  changed  the  sit- 
uation. 

When  the  average  woman  resolves  to  become  and 
be  a  good  wife,  she  usually  resolves  upon  a  state  of 
tender  servitude  which  eventually  leads  to  a  state 
of  dutiful  but  listless  slavery.  She  is  at  last  neither 
interesting  nor  effective,  simply  as  a  wife.  If  a 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  129 

husband  is  disposed  to  unfaithfulness,  which  has 
sometimes  been  remarked  as  a  characteristic  of  the 
male  temperament,  he  is  more  likely  to  be  unfaith- 
ful to  this  kind  of  wife  who  has  slipped  off  the 
matrimonial  pedestal  into  the  serving  class.  The 
chief  difference  between  these  women  and  other 
servants  is  that  they  do  not  receive  wages  and  can't 
"quit."  Also  when  one  of  them  dies  of  it,  as  many 
of  them  do,  the  bereaved  husband  is  almost  certain 
to  marry  sooner  than  would  otherwise  be  the  case, 
because  while  at  a  pinch  a  man  can  get  on  without 
a  wife,  no  man  can  bear  to  be  without  dependable 
service  devoted  exclusively  to  him  and  his  comfort 
once  he  has  become  accustomed  to  it.  The  fact  that 
he  sometimes  finds  the  tables  turned  and  himself 
the  footman  of  his  second  wife  is  accidental  retribu- 
tion and  not  what  he  was  expecting  from  past  ex- 
perience. 

Betty,  by  one  of  those  strange  flips  of  the  coin 
of  feminine  fate,  was  not  to  be  this  kind  of  wife, 
although  every  indication  of  her  character  pointed 
that  way.  She  was  not  to  be  an  orthodox  wife  at 
all,  if  you  know  what  I  mean,  which  you  may  be 
pardoned  for  not  knowing.  It  is  no  evidence  of  a 
lack  of  intelligence  on  your  part,  but  rather  of 
originality  and  imagination  concerning  a  time-worn 
and  somewhat  dismantled  relationship,  such  as 
marriage  has  become  in  the  thought  of  many  people. 
Betty  in  fact  had  thought  very  little  about  being  a 


130  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

wife  at  all.  She  regarded  Windy  as  an  enormous 
and  practically  priceless  investment  which  she  had 
made  in  happiness,  not  her  happiness,  you  under- 
stand, but  just  happiness  in  which  she  and  Windy 
could  bask  blithely  to  their  hearts'  content.  Not 
that  she  had  got  it  down  to  this  rude  formula  of 
words,  certainly  not;  it  was  simply  a  feeling  she 
had  which  is  the  nature  of  the  strongest  purposes 
women  ever  entertain. 

There  is  a  man  in  this  country  who  has  written 
a  story  for  children,  called  "The  Big  End,"  which 
is  a  feat  of  such  confounding  imagination  that  no 
adult  publisher  has  been  found  willing  to  handle 
it.  The  title  indicates  the  premises  on  which  the 
story  is  based,  namely,  that  this  planet  is  really 
shaped  like  a  dumbbell,  with  the  globe  on  one  end 
larger  than  the  globe  on  the  other  end.  That  the 
part  now  inhabited  is  relatively  small.  That  what 
we  think  is  the  north  pole  will  prove  to  be  a  long 
narrow  neck  of  land  entirely  surrounded  by  air 
which  leads  to  "The  Big  End"  of  this  dumbbell 
planet,  where  the  scenes  of  his  story  are  laid. 

What  I  am  coming  to  is  this — when  Betty  Mar- 
shall married  Windham  Cutmore  she  was  like  the 
heroine  in  this  story  when  she  crossed  the  neck  and 
came  up  and  out  in  The  Big  End.  She  had  it  all 
before  her.  She  was  out  and  up  on  a  great  adven- 
ture. Windy  was  a  sort  of  grant  she  had  received 
from  a  singularly  beneficent  Providence.  She  was 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  131 

herself  a  pioneer  determined  to  develop  this  grant 
at  any  cost.  Decidedly  a  remarkable  idea  of  a 
wife's  responsibilities  when  you  consider  how  many 
women  have  married  and  accepted  the  cut-and-dried 
conditions  of  it,  without  ever  crossing  the  neck  and 
discovering  the  wider  country  of  love  in  wedlock. 
Usually  when  they  start  for  strange  lands  of  love 
they  begin  by  breaking  the  lock  attached  to  "wed." 

Now,  the  life  of  a  pioneer,  however  adventurous 
and  thrilling,  is  bound  to  be  arduous.  You  are  out 
under  the  open  heavens  with  nothing  to  protect 
you  but  your  own  soul.  Everything  is  to  be  done, 
and  you  are  to  do  it. 

Betty  discovered  all  this  at  once  and  "went  to 
it,"  as  the  saying  goes.  She  was  happy,  of  course, 
with  that  sense  of  completeness  which  comes  to 
two  people  who  have  married  just  for  love,  and 
which  grows  a  bit  tiresome  as  the  years  pass  be- 
cause it  is  neither  natural  nor  progressive  to  get 
yourself  completed  in  this  life,  especially  in  your 
early  youth,  and  because  it  is  very  difficult  in  the 
married  relation  to  create  a  diversion  without  creat- 
ing a  disturbance.  But  now  the  sensible  and  eco- 
nomical thing  to  do  was  to  lay  the  scenes  properly 
for  this  new  and  complete  happiness,  for  if  you  are 
thrifty  you  economize  in  happiness  and  make  it  last 
as  long  as  possible.  Betty  was  thrifty,  with  the 
joyful  energy  of  a  young  bird  building  her  first  nest. 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  Cutmore  residence  was  a  very  fine  old  house. 
There  was  a  wide  hall  with  a  magnificent  staircase. 
The  rooms  were  large,  the  ceilings  lofty.  The  case- 
ments long  and  deep.  There  was  a  dullness  every- 
where. The  furniture  was  handsome,  but  it  needed 
to  be  furbished  up.  The  rugs  were  beautiful  and 
needed  cleaning.  There  was  a  great  chest  of  silver 
which  had  lost  heart  and  decided  to  become  oxi- 
dized. There  was  a  quantity  of  the  finest  linen, 
much  of  which  must  be  mended.  Betty  had  never 
seen  such  lovely  china,  and  it  was  scattered  from 
the  pantry  to  the  bookcases  in  the  library.  It  was 
up-stairs  and  down-stairs  and  in  my  lady's  chamber. 

When  men  live  alone  in  a  house,  they  do  some- 
thing to  it.  Brightness  and  order  depart  from  it. 
It  becomes  chaotic  like  the  civilizations  they  pro- 
duce which  must  be  cleaned  out  and  rebuilt  from 
time  to  time  for  the  same  reason,  because  there  is 
no  dust-pan-and-broom  department  in  the  mascu- 
line intelligence.  Therefore  no  civilization  will 
last  which  is  not  conceived  and  kept  with  the 
additional  aid  and  termagant  house-cleaning  and 
-keeping  energy  of  women.  This  reference  to  the 
perishableness  of  bachelor  civilizations,  which  are 

132 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  133 

the  only  kind  we  have  had  so  far,  is  put  in  as  an 
aside  merely  to  indicate  why  there  is  so  much  an- 
tagonism to  the  idea  of  woman  citizenship.  It  is 
bad  enough  to  endure  your  wife  when  she  is  in  a 
house-cleaning  frenzy,  but  you  can  become  absent 
from  home  on  that  day  and  escape  the  scandal  of 
dust  she  raises.  You  can  not,  however,  remove 
yourself  far,  say  a  quarter  of  a  century,  from  this 
civilization  while  she,  and  likewise  other  shes,  un- 
dertake the  arduous  task  of  cleaning  it  up,  because 
when  you  should  return  home  that  night  you  would 
be  too  old  and  too  perverse  to  appreciate  improved 
conditions.  Besides  she  would  need  your  strong 
arm  in  this  business  to  sweep  the  scum  out  of  the 
dark  corners  which  you  have  so  carelessly  collected, 
especially  from  foreign  parts. 

Betty  found  her  home  in  this  sordid  masculine 
condition  of  dinginess  and  disarray.  The  Cutmores, 
father  and  son,  had  lived  in  it  for  years  with  their 
lazily  well-satisfied  servants,  no  doubt  subcon- 
sciously uncomfortable,  but  with  no  mind  to  worry 
about  this  unimportant  detail  of  dust  and  china 
that  hoboed  its  way  into  the  parlor  and  remained 
there. 

She  had  the  time  and  the  will  to  change  all  this. 
Her  friends  were  still  out  of  town.  There  would 
be  no  visitors  until  September,  and  Windy  was  at 
the  office.  She  and  Marie  and  Jerry  worked  in- 
defatigably.  The  old  house  began  to  glisten  inside. 


134  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

The  floors  were  polished;  the  rugs,  old  and  beauti- 
fully faded,  lay  upon  them  like  drifts  of  Autumn 
leaves  in  the  sun.  The  silver  was  rubbed,  and  some 
of  it  used  to  brighten  the  immense  sideboard  in  the 
dining-room.  The  china  had  its  face  washed  and 
was  restored  to  the  china  community.  The  tall, 
brass  andirons  in  the  library  shone  like  yellow 
torches  in  the  cavernous  fireplace.  Betty  was 
working  off  the  first  joyful  energies  of  love.  Once 
when  Cutmore  came  home  unexpectedly  in  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon  she  was  fluttering  on  the 
staircase  like  a  small  bluebird  that  has  just  flown 
through  a  particularly  dusty  spider-web.  Shreds 
of  many  webs  clung  to  her,  and  she  was  poking 
fiercely  with  a  long-handled  duster  at  still  other 
webs  in  the  groins  and  cornices  above  her  head. 

"Betty!"  he  exclaimed,  horrified,  because  he  had 
never  seen  her  like  this.  He  supposed  Marie  and 
Jerry  were  doing  the  work.  She  had  led  him  to 
think  so.  She  was  frequently  seated  primly  in  a 
pretty  place  when  he  came  home  in  the  late  after- 
noon mending  something  that  looked  fine  and  deli- 
cate and  becoming  to  her. 

"Betty!"  he  had  to  repeat  before  she  heard  him. 

Then  she  looked  down,  brushed  the  fairy  lock 
from  her  brow,  gave  him  a  gay  little  smile  which 
was  besmirched,  and  waved  the  duster  at  him. 

"You  are  killing  yourself!"  he  cried,  climbing 
the  stairs  as  she  came  down  to  him. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  135 

"I  am  enjoying  myself,"  she  retorted,  and  would 
not  be  enfolded  in  his  arms  because  she  would  cer- 
tainly muss  him  if  she  did. 

He  preferred  to  be  mussed. 

"This  is  terrible,  Betty,"  he  said,  holding  her 
close.  "I  should  have  taken  you  on  a  wedding- tour 
instead  of  bringing  you  to  this  musty  old  barn  of  a 
house!" 

"Please  don't  refer  to  my  beautiful  home  in  such 
terms,  Windy,"  she  returned  resentfully.  "This  is 
so  much  more  interesting  than  a  bridal  trip  could 
possibly  be.  I  think  it  is  dreadful  to  go  traveling 
about  simply  because  you  have  just  married.  It  is 
much  nicer  and  proper  to  settle  down  and  begin 
being  at  home." 

Didn't  he  think  so,  she  wanted  to  know,  seeing 
that  he  remained  silent. 

Well,  yes,  in  a  way,  it  probably  was,  but  really 
he  should  have  taken  her  away  from 

"Windy,"  she  interrupted,  "after  a  while,  when 
we  are  a  little  tired  of  this  quiet  house,  and  maybe 
for  the  moment  of  each  other,  we  will  take  that 
wedding-journey.  You  will  go  East  and  I  shall 
fly  West,  just  to  find  out  how  blessed  such  a  home 
is,  and  how  dearly  we  love  each  other!" 

This  was  a  preposterous  idea.  He  had  never 
heard  of  a  divided  and  divorced  wedding-trip.  He 
would  never  agree  to  such  a  thing.  But,  warningly, 


136  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

if  she  did  not  leave  this  house-cleaning  to  the 
servants  at  once  she  might  as  well  pack  and  prepare 
to  go  bridal  touring  with  him,  and  so  forth  and  so 
on,  these  latter  sentiments  being  translated  upon 
Betty's  lips. 

She  said  very  well,  she  would  regard  his  wishes 
in  this  matter  especially  as  now  everything  was 
done.  She  hoped  he  didn't  think  she  was  going  to 
become  one  of  those  tiresome,  obedient  wives,  sim- 
ply because  she  regarded  his  wishes. 

No,  he  did  not  think  that,  he  assured  her,  smil- 
ing. 

"Because,  Windy,"  she  went  on  belligerently, 
"I  am  not.  That  word  'obey'  in  the  marriage  cere- 
mony is  like  the  Ten  Commandments  in  the  Bible. 
It  is  there,  and  they  are  in  the  Scriptures,  but  no 
one  accepts  them  literally.  If  they  did  I  don't  know 
what  would  happen!" 

"Especially  the  Ten  Commandments!"  he  agreed, 
laughing. 

"Especially  that  word  obey  in  the  marriage  cere- 
mony," she  answered.  "Men  were  not  made  to  be 
obeyed,  but  to  obey.  That  is  an  eminently  prac- 
tical scripture." 

Simple  stuff,  banal,  but  all  young  couples  indulge 
in  it.  They  prefer  it  to  any  of  the  firmer  forms  of 
thought.  They  are  as  little  children  in  the  King- 
dom of  Love. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  137 

One  evening  after  dinner,  she  announced  casu- 
ally, "Some  one  called  to-day." 

"Who?"  he  wanted  to  know. 

"Our  rector." 

He  said  nothing. 

"He  is  a  nice  man." 

"A  rector  should  be,"  he  said,  coolly,  and  there- 
after remained  bitterly  silent.  Betty  remained 
gently  so.  She  contrived  to  convey  this  idea  of 
gentleness  by  regarding  him  with  a  soft,  purring 
gaze. 

He  was  suspicious  of  it.  He  had  been  a  choir-boy 
hi  the  tenor  period  of  his  extreme  youth.  That  was 
enough  for  him.  He  did  fervently  hope  Betty  had 
no  Sabbath  designs  on  his  one  day  of  rest !  He  did 
hope  she  was  not  one  of  those  women  who  develop 
into  a  church  celebrity  of  piety  and  good  works. 
When  a  man  married  a  woman  she  was  supposed 
to  forsake  all  others  and  cleave  only  to  him.  In 
his  opinion  this  also  excluded  that  separate  devotion 
some  of  them  gave  to  the  church.  Betty  had  been 
remarkably  reticent  about  her  family  since  their 
marriage.  She  seemed  to  be  weaned.  This  rector 
need  not  think  he  could  scoop  up  his,  Cutmore's, 
wife  and  make  a  missionary  galley-slave  of  her  for 
the  good  of  the  heathens.  He  was  some  heathen 
himself! 

"I  hope  you  did  not  commit  yourself  in  any  way, 
Betty,"  he  said  at  last. 


138  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"To  the  rector,  how  do  you  mean*?"  she  asked. 

"You  did  not  promise  to  attend  services  every 
Sunday,  nor — nor  join  anything,  did  you*?"  he 
stammered. 

"No,  dear,  I  did  not,"  she  laughed. 

He  was  immensely  relieved. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  "I  was  brought  up  in 
the  church,  very  much  in  it.  Nothing  was  omitted. 
But  now  I'm  up,  I'm  grown,  and  married."  She 
hesitated,  looking  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Go  on,"  he  said. 

"I  was  just  thinking  that  it  would  be  nice  to — 
rest  a  while — on  the  Sabbath  day — not  to  be 
obliged  to  sit  up  and  listen  to  the  sermon,  which  is 
so  often  the  very  Jonathan  of  the  one  you  heard  the 
Sunday  before — not  very  interesting." 

She  leaned  closer,  inviting  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  and  looked  up  at  him  as  if  she  hoped  he 
would  not  be  shocked  at  these  views.  And  he  fell 
for  it.  He  did  not  conceive  that  this  adorable  crea- 
ture with  the  candid  eyes  could  be  driving  him  to 
Cork  by  pretending  that  they  were  going  to  Dublin. 
Your  wife  does  you  that  way  constantly,  frequently 
in  the  presence  of  others  who  know  exactly  what 
she  is  doing.  But  you  never  suspect  her. 

"But,  Windy,"  Betty  went  on  in  a  smaller,  softer 
voice,  "now  that  I  have  forsaken  my  father  and  my 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  139 

mother  and  am  no  longer  in  the  church — I  feel  more 
the  need  of  Providence  than  ever  before!" 

Providence!  Not  until  this  moment  did  he 
realize  that  he  had  arrogated  to  himself  the  proud 
privilege  of  being  Betty's  Providence. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said,  making  this 
bid  for  sympathetic  understanding. 

He  did  not  take  it.    He  remained  silent. 

"It  is  a — a  naked  feeling,"  she  explained,  "as  if 
my  very  soul  was  now  exposed  to  the  inclemency 
of  strange  weather,  as  if  my  foundation  of  old, 
familiar  things  was  swept  away.  As  if  I  had  noth- 
ing but  just  you." 

"But  you  have  me;  I  literally  do  belong  to  you, 
Betty,"  he  returned  quickly. 

"Yes,  but  you  will  be  my  husband  for  only  a 
comparatively  short  time " 

He  made  a  sound  indicating  horror  and  indigna- 
tion. He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  went  on. 

"  'Till  death  us  do  part,'  it  says,"  she  continued 
in  that  small,  sad  voice.  "You  are  everything  in 
the  world  to  me.  But  you  are  not  God,  Windy,  to 
whom  our  relations  are  much  more  permanent,  es- 
pecially after  death  has  parted  us." 

He  was  hurt.  And  he  could  not  locate  this 
wound.  A  man  can  be  jealous  of  anything.  And 
many  a  one  is  justified  in  resenting  the  alien  activity 
of  his  wife  in  her  spiritual  life.  "To  be  included  in 
her  prayers  and  excluded  from  her  thoughts,  to  be- 


140  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

come  her  cross  instead  of  her  husband  is  a  form  of 
infidelity  which  some  of  the  best  women  practice 
with  no  scruples  at  all.  Cutmore  hoped  his  Betty 
was  not  going  to  develop  fever  of  the  soul. 

He  decided  to  reason  with  her,  nip  this  thing  in 
the  bud.  He  did  not  want  her  to  lay  the  scenes  of 
her  part  of  their  common  life  in  the  hereafter.  He 
wished  her  to  remain  in  the  here  and  now,  strictly 
by  his  side  in  deed  and  in  love. 

He  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  mention  this  term, 
"reason,"  in  the  next  thing  he  said  to  her  upon  this 
subject.  He  said  in  effect  that  they  would  have  it 
out  together  right  now.  He  wanted  her  to  know 
his  views.  He  was  willing  to  reason  with  her  but 
not  to  compromise,  because  an  understanding  and 
agreement  was  vital  to  their  happiness. 

Hearing  these  words,  she  sat  up,  disengaged  her 
waist  from  his  encircling  arm  as  if  this  arm  had  been 
a  heresy.  Also,  she  withdrew  the  hands  that  had 
been  clasping  his  hand,  and  she  folded  both  of  them 
close  together,  as  if  these  were  children  she  had 
called  home  from  a  neighbor's  house  where  the  as- 
sociation might  not  be  entirely  good  for  them.  And 
she  fixed  her  gaze  upon  him,  not  anywise  reproach- 
fully, but  much  as  if  the  very  Adam  of  him  was 
undergoing  inspection. 

"Windy,"  she  said,  speaking  with  that  feminine 
firmness  of  tone  which  the  gentlest  women  know 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  141 

how  and  when  to  use,  "I  can  not  follow  you,  my 
faculties  are  not  trained  that  way,  but  I  am  willing 
to  leg  it  after  you  while  you  reason  about  anything 
else  except  spiritual  things.  I  will  not  do  that !" 

"Why?5  he  asked,  astonished. 

"Because  reason  is  a  finite  faculty.  It  is  to  our 
minds  what  flesh  and  blood  is  to  our  bodies.  It 
limits  mind  to  the  contemplation  of  things  seen 
and  heard  and  to  be  found  in  this  present  world.  It 
never  goes  beyond  this  present  world,  any  more 
than  our  bodies  can.  Bodies,  time,  and  reason  are 
the  conditions  under  which  we  exist  here.  They 
are  our  limitations  which  can  not  be  passed.  I  will 
reason  about  you,  dear ;  I  do  that.  I  spend  thought- 
ful hours  at  it  every  day,  but  I  will  not  reason  about 
my  Heavenly  Father,  nor  the  ties  that  bind  me  to 
His  mercies!" 

He  was  feeling  very  poor,  but  he  was  determined 
to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  thing.  If  she  abjured 
reason  and  intelligence  he  wanted  to  know  how  she 
arrived  at  the  idea  of  a  personal  Providence. 

"By  faith,  of  course,"  she  said. 

He  permitted  the  corners  of  the  world's  retort 
to  show  ironically  on  his  lips. 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking!"  she 
answered.  "But  you  are  only  thinking,  which 
doesn't  count  in  a  matter  like  this." 

She  leaned  back  and  stared  across  time  and  sense, 
omitting  her  husband. 


142  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"You  are  funny,  Windy,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
this,  not  at  him.  "You  like  to  read  old  books,  very 
old  ones  where  the  sentences  wear  armor  and  stalk 
across  the  pages  exalted  like  knights.  You  like 
both  the  eloquence  and  the  splendor  of  old  poetry, 
and  you  do  not  know  why." 

"Well,  why?"  he  asked,  because  this  was  the 
truth.  He  would  have  said  if  you  asked  him  that  it 
was  because  he  had  some  measure  of  classical  taste. 

"Because  these  old  Greeks  and  mystics  and  poets 
and  orators  did  not  know  so  much  as  men  know  now, 
and  they  believed  infinitely  more.  You  call  it 
classical  literature.  And  you  do  not  know  that  the 
Good  God  is  the  original  classic,  and  that  all  others 
spring  from  some  sort  of  divine  inspiration." 

"What  about  the  heathens  and  the  pagans,  who 
are  the  authors  and  progenitors  of  some  of  the 
greatest  of  these*?"  he  demanded  teasingly  with  that 
superior  air  men  have  when  women  dare  to  think 
and  speak  beyond  themselves  in  their  exalted  pres- 
ence. 

"There  never  was  a  heathen  in  this  world, 
Windy,"  she  said,  speaking  with  her  own  authority 
on  this  subject. 

"Bless  my  soul,  Betty,"  he  exclaimed,  beginning 
to  be  very  much  amused. 

"All  men  from  the  beginning  have  believed  the 
best  they  could  in  Providence,  personal  too.  And 
they  have  gone  on  improving  the  character  and 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  143 

attributes  of  this  Providence  as  their  own  quality 
and  powers  of  faith  developed." 

The  smart  little  rationalist,  he  thought,  spread- 
ing the  wings  of  her  imagination  impudently  and 
daringly  in  this  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 

A  year  of  contemplation  on  his  mountain  had 
not  given  him  such  cunning  powers  of  navigation 
there.  He  had  never  mentioned  this  hermit  period 
in  his  life  to  Betty. 

"As  for  pagans,"  this  Betty  went  on,  "they  are 
only  simplified  rationalists,  trying  to  believe  in  im- 
mortality and  Providence,  with  their  human  clothes 
still  on,  and  their  human  desires  still  inside.  But 
they  do  believe." 

Windy  let  out  a  spurt  of  laughter. 

Betty  felt  that  she  must  make  herself  clearer  on 
this  point. 

"You  remember  the  time  Mohammed  ordered  the 
mountain  to  come  to  him*?" 

Windy  replied  that  he  had  heard  of  this  circum- 
stance in  the  career  of  Mohammed. 

"Well,  it  didn't  come,  that  mountain.  So  he  got 
down  and  went  to  it.  This  was  a  brave  thing  to  do. 
It  taught  something.  So  his  followers  still  followed 
a  man  who  had  the  courage  to  admit  the  mistake. 
He  had  got  the  wrong  mountain  by  the  horns.  But 
it  is  written  in  our  own  Scriptures  that  if  one  has 
faith  to  the  amount  of  a  grain  of  mustard-seed  he 
can  remove  mountains !"  she  went  on. 


144  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"But  can  he?'  he  challenged. 

"I  believe  it,"  she  answered  and  expounded  this 
faith.  "You  see  where  we  get  the  drop  on  Moham- 
med. Our  Scriptures  do  not  refer  to  a  real  mountain 
that  you  can  see  with  the  naked  eye,  so  by  faith  we 
can  remove  it,  without  any  one  saying  that  we  did 
not,  because,  as  I  said,  the  whole  thing  is  invisible." 

"Shrewd!"  was  his  comment. 

"Of  course,  one  must  be  very  shrewd  in  faith. 
But  it  is  like  this,  the  mountain  we  remove.  Sup- 
pose you  have  some  dreadful  fault." 

Cutmore  moved  uncomfortably,  as  you  do  when 
some  one  is  about  to  become  unpleasantly  personal 
at  your  expense. 

" — Not  that  you  have,"  she  went  on,  smiling, 
having  caught  his  uneasiness,  "but  suppose  you  had. 
I  would  not  accuse  you  of  it,  I  should  not  reproach 
you  with  it,  but  I  should  get  out  my  grain  of 
mustard-seed  measure  of  faith  and — and,  well,  re- 
move it." 

Cutmore  stiffened.  He  became  ominously  grave. 
His  lip  tightened,  a  bad-weather  sign  with  him. 
All  to  no  purpose,  because  Betty  was  not  observing 
him.  She  was  apparently  contemplating  that  pos- 
sible contingency  of  having  to  get  up  and  remove  a 
mountain.  He  was  therefore  obliged  to  speak. 

"No  man  likes  to  be  made  the  victim  of  his  wife's 
prayers,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,"  he  said  shortly. 

She  glanced  at  him,  then  she  turned  her  pretty 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  145 

head  and  stared  at  him.  She  comprehended.  Then 
she  began  to  laugh.  She  patted  his  arm  and  laughed 
more.  He  remained,  you  may  say,  unalterable. 
Then  she  flung  herself  upon  him  with  a  dear  em- 
brace. 

"What  a  goose  you  are,  Windy!"  she  cried.  "I 
should  just  believe  in  you  so  much,  love  you  so 
much  that  the  fault  would  dwindle  and  disappear, 
even  as  mine  will  if  you  love  me  enough !" 

Oh,  well,  that  was  better.  He  could  permit  him- 
self to  be  gently  and  softly  translated  by  Betty's 
love  and  faith  in  him.  She  might  remove  his  very 
elbows  by  this  process  if  she  chose. 

In  this  connection  it  may  as  well  be  said  now 
that  he  was  never  conscious  of  either  his  faults  or 
shortcomings  under  the  reign  of  Betty's  dear  Provi- 
dence. If  all  his  sins  had  been  catalogued  for  her 
she  would  not  have  believed  he  had  one.  Windy 
might  need  developing  along  some  lines,  and  cen- 
soring along  others.  That  was  as  much  as  she 
would  have  conceded.  The  eyes  of  love  are  like 
this.  They  never  diminish  you. 

Cutmore  was  not  so  much  relieved  by  this  revela- 
tion of  his  wife's  religious  nature  that  he  ceased 
altogether  to  guard  the  boundaries  of  their  happi- 
ness in  that  direction.  Her  capacity  for  the  most 
flattering  and  endearing  hopes  encouraged  him. 
Her  faith  in  him  was  a  total  faith  without  reserva- 


146  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

tions  or  any  shadow  of  doubt.  He  conceived  the 
terrifying  idea  that  Betty  was  practicing  in  her  love 
that  piety  which  is  usually  expended  in  Christian 
endeavor,  and  that  she  had  no  religious  name  for  it. 
But  it  kept  him  strung  up  to  her  standards.  He 
thought  it  would  be  easier  not  to  be  obliged  to  be 
Betty's  ideal.  He  undertook  to  demean  himself  to 
this  end.  She  would  not  endure  such  opinions  of 
her  husband! 

"You  believe  too  much,  Betty.  You  believe 
everything  as  if  it  were  true !"  he  exclaimed  on  this 
occasion. 

"Some,  as  much  as  I  can.  The  more  you  believe 
the  less  you  despair!"  she  answejed,  regarding  him 
pathetically. 

He  was  touched.  How  had  she  arrived  at  that 
desperate  faith  in  him*?  He  was  probably  never 
to  know.  There  is  an  Ananias  or  some  other  villain 
concealed  in  every  husband.  And  within  thirty 
days  after  marriage  he  is  known  to  the  wife  who 
spends  the  next  thirty  years  keeping  him  out  of 
sight,  so  that  she  may  love  and  honor  this  husband. 

Nature  makes  some  women  to  be  loved.  They 
are  rarely  gifted,  not  often  very  good.  They  are 
usually  the  mere  appearance  of  what  men  desire. 
They  carry  charms  as  a  highwayman  carries  arms. 
They  practice  prettiness  as  witches  practice  incanta- 
tions, and  they  do  not  really  exist  at  all,  not  for 
you,  only  for  themselves.  They  are  a  superstition 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  147 

of  loveliness  from  which  men  recover  in  a  cold  sweat 
of  reason  after  marriage,  and  with  whom  they  go  on 
living  at  great  expense  as  one  pays  eternal  margins 
on  an  unprofitable  investment  which  can  not  be  sold 
nor  liquidated. 

.  On  the  other  hand  now  and  then  a  woman  is 
born  just  to  love,  not  to  be  loved.  They  are  the 
secret  miracles  of  their  sex,  not  to  be  distinguished 
from  others  until  afterward,  when  you  and  all  out- 
ward things  conspire  to  apply  the  test.  There  was 
nothing  at  this  time  to  indicate  any  marked  differ- 
ence between  Betty  and  other  young  brides  passing 
through  that  first  beatific  stage  of  domesticity  and 
love,  except  in  details  so  insignificant  that  only 
experienced  married  people  would  have  noticed 
them  and  wondered.  For  example  she  never  asked 
Cutmore  if  he  "still  loved  her."  On  the  contrary, 
she  frequently  told  him  that  she  "still  loved  him" 
in  a  tone  which  implied  that  he  would  surely  be 
gratified  by  this  assurance.  At  first  he  laughed  at 
the  very  idea  of  his  needing  to  be  told  what  he  knew 
already.  But  when  she  less  frequently  remembered 
to  say  so,  he  missed  it,  came  to  heel,  and  asked  her 
if  she  "still  loved  him." 

She  served  him  hand  and  foot,  but  she  drew  ar- 
bitrary lines  in  this  service.  She  would  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  matters  pertaining  to  his  feet.  She 
would  lay  out  his  clothes,  even  his  razor  and  brush, 
but  she  ignored  socks  and  shoes.  He  noticed  this, 


148  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

not  that  it  mattered,  he  told  her,  but  just  for  curi- 
osity he  would  like  to  know  why  she  snubbed  his 
feet.  She  said  it  was  because  her  aunt  Clarinda, 
who  was  now  dead,  poor  soul,  used  to  bring  the  foot- 
bath for  her  husband  when  he  came  home  in  the 
evenings. 

"You  see,  it  was  before  the  day  of  bathtubs,  and 
it  was  the  custom  for  men  to  refresh  themselves 
that  way.  Well,  it  about  ruined  my  aunt  Clarinda's 
married  life." 

"But  why?"  Cutmore  wanted  to  know. 

"Why?"  Betty  repeated  scornfully.  "Because 
she  associated  herself  with  her  husband's  feet.  He 
based  his  estimate  of  her  on  that.  .  Any  man  would." 

This  conversation  took  place  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. Cutmore  was  standing  before  the  mirror  in  his 
dressing-room  shaving  himself.  Betty  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  in  her  room,  wrapped  in  a  blue 
kimono,  lazily  dressing  her  own  feet  in  a  pair  of 
charming  slippers.  Cutmore,  tied  up  in  a  bath- 
robe, came  to  the  open  door  of  the  dressing-room 
with  the  lather  on  his  face,  razor  in  one  hand  and 
shaving-brush  in  the  other. 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  actually  bathed  her  hus- 
band's feet?"  he  asked  in  the  tone  of  one  who  fum- 
bles for  the  adequate  explanation  of  a  very  queer 
thing. 

"Probably  she  did;  we  don't  know,"  Betty 
answered  darkly. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"But  her  husband  came  to  exalt  himself  accord- 
ingly, and  to  show  a  contempt  for  his  poor  wife. 
He  never  asked  her  to  do  things.  He  told  her  to 
do  them.  Mother  says  she  has  actually  seen  Aunt 
Clarinda  standing  behind  his  chair  when  he  was 
taking  his  food.  It  was  perfectly  awful !" 

Cutmore  withdrew  with  the  embarrassed  air  of 
one  who  has  heard  a  strange  accusation  made  against 
his  sex.  And  one  that  might  easily  have  applied  to 
him  but  for  Betty's  strong  character.  Because  if, 
and  in  case  Betty  had  presented  him  with  a  foot- 
bath, which  was  preposterous,  of  course,  he  would 
have  accepted  the  same  in  good  faith  without  feel- 
ing that  she  had  lowered  herself,  rather,  he  felt  that 
she  would  have  thus  endeared  herself  to  him  in  a 
quaint,  old-fashioned  way. 

Why,  he  asked  himself,  as  he  seized  the  shirt  laid 
out  for  him,  did  that  Clarinda  woman  want  to  bathe 
her  husband's  feet  if  she  had  no  more  sense  of  her- 
self than  to  become  a  martyr  to  the  said  feet  of  her 
husband.  The  fault  lay,  he  thought,  in  the  Cla- 
rinda quality. 

Betty,  still  seated  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed,  was 
tucking  up  her  hair,  which  was  particularly  unruly 
early  in  the  morning,  when  Cutmore  reappeared  in 
the  dressing-room  door.  He  was  holding  the  shirt 
by  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  each  hand  and  star- 
ing at  the  bosom  of  it,  as  if  he  saw  something  there 


150  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

which  reflected  on  some  one,  but  not  him.  He  was 
the  victim.  He  looked  like  a  victim.  He  wore  a 
deeply  wronged  expression. 

"I  suppose  your  aunt  Clarinda  was  scrupulous 
about  sewing  on  her  lord's  buttons,"  he  remarked 
casually. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  was,  everything  like  that,"  Betty 
answered,  head  bowed  and  hands  very  busy  pinning 
up  her  hair. 

Then  she  looked  up  and  caught  sight  of  her  hus- 
band's eye  leveled  at  her  over  the  shirt.  It  was  not 
menacing,  but  it  certainly  was  accusative. 

"Windy,"  she  exclaimed  despairingly,  "don't  tell 
me  there  is  another  button  gone !" 

"No,"  coolly,  "it  is  the  same  one  that  was  off 
last  week.  I  thought  I  mentioned  the  omission  of 
this  button,  but " 

"You  did!  Oh,  dear!"  she  admitted,  falling 
back  across  the  bed  very  much  cast  down,  with  her 
arms  over  her  head. 

She  could  not  think  how  it  was,  she  said,  that 
buttons  either  on  or  off  made  so  little  impression 
on  her  mind.  She  supposed  it  was  because  she  had 
never  faced  the  button  problem  before.  She  herself 
used  pins  and  snaps. 

"Your  father  must  have  them,"  he  suggested. 

No  doubt  he  did,  but  her  mother  must  have 
counted  father's  buttons  and  guarded  them,  because 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

she  had  never  heard  the  subject  mentioned  in  the 
home. 

"Sometimes  a  button  is  crucial,  Betty.  You  can't 
get  on  without  it,  especially  in  front." 

"And  they  are  all  in  front!"  she  moaned  as  if 
this  tragic  circumstance  added  to  her  despair,  but 
still  showing  a  total  lack  of  confidence  in  herself 
rather  than  a  resolution  to  mend  her  way. 

Then  she  flirted  up  from  the  bed  radiant  with  a 
solution  of  this  problem. 

"At  least  I  can  find  a  button-full  shirt  for  you, 
dear.  Surely  they  have  not  all  molted  their  but- 
tons!" she  said,  whisking  past  him  to  the  chiffonier 
where  his  linen  was  bestowed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Few  women  are  ever  related  by  marriage  to  the 
minds  of  their  husbands.  These  minds  are  foreign 
countries  where  they  discover  themselves  to  be 
aliens,  speaking  another  smaller  language  and  prac- 
tically incapable  of  mastering  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  that  place.  This  is  sometimes  the  man's 
fault,  because  his  mind  is  not  a  fit  place  for  a  nice 
person  like  his  wife  to  dwell,  but  more  frequently 
it  is  the  wife's  fault,  who  is  not  willing  to  associate 
intimately  with  the  hardships  that  inhabit  the  mind 
of  a  busy  man,  who  has  no  time  to  ornament  that 
area  with  ideas  pertaining  to  the  finer  things.  So  it 
happens  that  both  of  them  prefer  this  divorce,  the 
man  because  the  woman  gets  in  the  way  with  her 
scruples  and  emotions  when  he  is  about  to  do  busi- 
ness without  reference  to  either ;  the  woman  because 
it  is  easier  to  keep  on  the  domestic  periphery  of  her 
husband,  where  she  thinks  she  knows  him  and  is 
married  to  him  because  she  knows  what  foods  he 
likes,  and  the  people  he  prefers  to  have  asked  to  dine 
when  she  entertains,  the  chair  that  fits  him,  the  large 
pillow  or  the  small  one  he  wants  for  his  tired  old 
head  at  night,  the  place  where  the  light  must  be 

when  he  reads  in  the  evening,  rather  than  talk  to 

152 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  153 

her,  because  there  is  nothing  to  talk  about,  since  she 
is  only  the  wife  of  his  bosom  and  not  of  his  head. 

This,  my  masters,  is  the  real  explanation  of  the 
contention  that  has  been  going  on  for  the  last 
twenty-five  years  between  men  and  women,  which 
is  known  as  the  "woman  problem."  It  is,  but  the 
problem  consists  in  the  fact  that  while  they  wish 
to  share  equally  with  men  those  obligations  such 
as  economic  independence,  citizenship,  and  the  rest, 
they  really  do  not  want  to  share  them.  They  could 
be  very  well  contented  with  equal  rights  without 
being  obliged  to  exercise  them. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  so  far  as  this 
story  is  concerned,  and  very  likely  is  a  flat  con- 
tradiction of  something  else  this  author  has  written 
somewhere  on  the  same  subject,  which  in  turn  is  of 
no  consequence  either,  since  authors  are  notoriously 
irresponsible,  holding  any  view  that  suits  that  end 
of  the  tale.  The  real  point  is  that  Betty  was  for- 
tunate in  the  choice  of  a  husband,  although  of  course 
she  had  not  chosen  him,  but  had  been  chosen  by  him, 
because  he  had  a  polite  and  elegant  mind  where 
any  perfect  lady  might  find  herself  secure  and  well 
entertained.  This  is  not  to  say  that  Betty  would 
not  have  invaded  it  and  remained  there  in  any  case 
furbishing  it  up  and  setting  it  in  order  as  she  had 
done  the  Cutmore  house,  because  she  had  a  mind 
of  her  own,  which  denotes,  more  particularly  in 
women,  a  will  of  her  own. 


154  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

They  were  both  indigenous  to  literature.  Not 
merely  fond  of  it,  you  understand,  which  is  fre- 
quently an  artificial  taste  acquired  by  fools.  They 
read  old  books,  the  novels  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray 
and  Walter  Scott,  not  for  the  stories,  but  because 
they  liked  the  characters  in  these  stories.  Cutmore 
was  accustomed  to  ascend  an  imaginary  pinnacle 
when  they  discussed  these  people,  in  no  language 
suitable  to  the  characters  of  real  persons,  by  which 
I  mean  that  it  was  richer  and  finer  talk  than  we 
usually  indulge  in  when  we  gossip  about  friends. 
He  would  lean  back,  cross  his  legs,  keep  his  head 
up,  smoke  a  good  cigar,  and  discuss  Colonel  New- 
come  with  Betty  as  if  that  gentleinan  had  been  there 
to  tea  the  day  before.  He  admired  the  Colonel. 
He  told  Betty  that  the  best  people  had  never  lived 
at  all  except  in  fiction,  and  Newcome  was  one  of 
these.  She  was  equally  devoted  to  Major  Penden- 
nis.  She  thought  in  many  ways  he  surpassed  Col- 
onel Newcome,  but  she  agreed  with  her  husband 
in  the  assertion  that  the  only  immortal  people  we 
have  in  this  world  are  in  books. 

"You  have  only  to  open  'Nicholas  Nickleby'  at 
the  five  hundred  and  fifty-third  page,"  she  would 
say,  "to  find  the  Cheeryble  Brothers  going  about 
doing  good  as  if  that  was  a  joke  they  perpetrated 
on  Tim  Linkinwater,  and  Tim  Linkinwater's  old 
sister  up-stairs  distracted  lest  the  cap  she  is  to  wear 
down  to  dinner  does  not  come  from  the  shop  in 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  155 

time,  while  Charles  Dickens,  who  created  them,  is 
dead  and  only  remembered  because  he  had  created 
them!" 

Whereupon  Cutmore  would  nod  his  head  in  por- 
tentous approval,  as  if  he  were  an  old  man  whose 
nod  expressed  authority.  And  Betty  regarded  him 
admiringly.  It  was  not  every  woman  who  had  such 
a  husband — no,  not  one  in  ten  thousand !  She  was 
as  far  as  most  wives  are  from  suspecting  some  of 
her  husband's  qualities  at  this  time. 

They  had  a  certain  conversation  along  this  line 
one  Summer  night,  which  is  set  down  here  to  show 
how  a  woman  can  stalk  her  husband  for  an  hour 
when  he  supposes  she  is  following  the  bright  gleam 
of  his  presence,  and  corner  him  at  last  and  convict 
him  of  an  outrageous  transgression  against  the  love 
and  peace  of  his  wife. 

They  had  been  reading  one  of  these  old  tales, 
which  was  absurd  and  out  of  keeping  with  their 
times  because  they  should  have  been  at  a  motion- 
picture  show.  Cutmore  held  the  book  and  read. 
Betty  listened.  She  also  appeared  to  be  studying 
her  husband.  This  was  not  unusual,  because  she 
was  always  doing  that  when  he  was  unconscious  of 
inspection.  Presently  she  shot  out  a  hand  and  laid 
it  detainingly  on  his  arm. 

"Wait,  Windy,  I  have  an  idea!"  she  said. 


156  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

He  closed  the  book  over  his  finger  and  waited. 
This  frequently  happened  because  Betty  never 
knew  when  she  would  have  an  idea,  and  when  she 
did  she  presented  it  instantly  for  his  inspection. 
She  always  sat  delicately  erect  at  such  times,  pos- 
sibly by  way  of  adding  dignity  to  what  she  was 
about  to  say. 

"Suppose,"  she  began  with  a  happy  smile,  "just 
suppose  we  could  give  a  dinner,  and  that  we  could 
invite  our  guests  from  the  men  and  women  whom 
we  admire  most  in  fiction,  which  ones  would  you 
choose?" 

He  returned  the  smile  and  waited,  being  sure  that 
Betty  had  already  canvassed  for -these  guests. 

"We  should  be  obliged  to  stick  to  fiction,"  she 
warned,  "because  most  of  the  people  we  know  in 
history  would  not  be  very  companionable.  History 
does  something  to  them.  They  are  too  closely  as- 
sociated with  great  deeds  and  withdrawn  from  their 
human  natures.  I  couldn't  bear  a  historical  char- 
acter seated  at  my  right  hand  at  the  table. 

"Of  course  not,"  he  agreed,  "and  they  probably 
would  not  accept  your  invitation.  People  like 
that." 

"I  should  have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  David  Copperfield," 
she  said  musingly. 

'Well,  then,  you  must  ask  Traddles,"  he  put  in. 

"But  not  that  Rosa  Dartle  person.  I  can't  bear 
her,"  she  said  quickly. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  157 

"No,  Rosa  would  be  a  short  circuit,  poor  thing," 
he  agreed. 

"You  should  ask  Colonel  Newcome  and  Major 
Pendennis,  and  the  Major  would  take  me  in  to 
dinner!"  she  said,  delighted. 

Cutmore  said  he  thought  they  had  better  stick 
to  one  author,  that  no  one  could  be  sure  whether 
Thackeray's  people  would  get  on  well  with  Dick- 
ens's  people.  He  thought  there  was  a  marked  social 
distinction  between  them,  the  former  being  to  the 
manner  born  even  when  they  were  in  the  direst 
poverty. 

They  began  to  discuss  the  menu  for  this  dinner. 
Betty  allowed  her  husband  to  suggest  the  dishes. 
This  he  did  without  suspicion  from  the  Dickens's 
literary  larder,  which,  as  every  one  knows,  was  gen- 
erously stored  with  the  richest  foods.  But  every 
time  he  mentioned  one  of  these  items  Betty  re- 
minded him  that  he  did  not  like  that,  and  he  could 
not  bear  even  the  odor  of  that.  Finally  he  re- 
minded her  that  she  was  not  giving  the  dinner  to 
him. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  replied,  "but  I  could  not  endure 
the  sight  of  you  seated  at  the  head  of  your  own  table 
starving  while  those  hearty  people  (and  they  were 
notoriously  hearty!)  fed  ravenously." 

She  held  up  one  hand,  spread  the  fingers  of  it, 
and  began  to  check  off  on  those  fingers  the  things 
he  would  not  eat.  There  were  not  enough  fingers 


158  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

on  it,  so  she  changed  hands  and  began  with  those 
of  the  left  hand.  She  mentioned  everything  in- 
cluding vegetables  rare  and  common.  He  disliked 
all  vegetables  except  lettuce.  But  she  could  not 
make  a  rabbit  of  her  husband  feeding  him  with 
lettuce  when  every  one  else  was  taking  real  food ! 

This  whimsical  and  delightful  idea  of  dining  a 
lot  of  Dickens's  dearer  characters  was  taking  a  queer 
turn.  He  suddenly  became  aware  of  something 
accusative  in  the  situation.  He  felt  like  a  man  in 
the  objective  case.  Betty  sat  now  like  a  grim  little 
transitive  verb,  looking  the  other  way. 

"Betty,  dear,"  he  exclaimed,  leaning  forward  and 
drawing  her  to  him,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

She  permitted  herself  to  be  drawn,  but  limply 
and  sadly  as  if  she  had  suffered  a  grievous  defeat 
in  love. 

"It  is  just  this,  Windy.  You  do  not  eat!  I  can 
not  find  anything  that  appeals  to  your  appetite, 
except  pie  and  coffee,  a  little  cheese,  and  lettuce," 
she  said. 

He  was  astonished.  He  said  that  one  of  the 
things  he  admired  about  her  housekeeping  was  the 
dainty  and  delicious  meals  she  served. 

"Yes,  but  you  don't  eat  them.  Marie  and  I  had 
to  consume  unaided  the  last  lamb  roast  we  had. 
You  did  not  touch  it." 

She  hoped  he  understood  that  she  was  not  com- 
plaining, she  said,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

would  he  mind  telling  her  what  he  liked  in  the  way 
of  foods. 

He  was  distressed;  he  was  in  the  position  of  an 
innocent  man  who  had  been  proved  guilty.  He 
searched  himself,  trying  to  remember  what  he  did 
like. 

"You  will  eat  bread.  You  are  Scriptural  in  that 
particular  at  least,"  she  said,  breaking  in  on  this 
silence,  "but  it  is  written  in  the  same  place  that  a 
man  can  not  live  by  bread  alone. 

"You  are  either  ill,  Windy,  or  I  am  a  poor  man- 
ager," she  went  on.  "And  if  you  are  ill,  it  is 
dreadful;  and  if  I  am  a  bad  provider,  it  is  even 
more  dreadful." 

He  begged  her  to  be  consoled.  He  had  never 
thought  much  on  the  subject  of  foods,  but  he  would 
give  his  attention  to  this  matter.  He  would  eat 
what  she  placed  before  him  in  the  future.  He 
would  make  a  point  of  doing  so! 

Betty,  you  observe,  was  up  against  the  first  and 
one  of  the  most  difficult  problems  for  woman  in  the 
married  life,  the  feeding  of  her  man. 

This  subject  has  not  received  the  attention  it 
deserves.  Some  one  should  write  a  text-book  for 
wives  on  how  to  train  husbands  at  the  table.  Be- 
cause the  male  animal,  whether  human  or  of  any 
other  species,  is  either  gluttonous  or  pernickety 
about  food.  Ask  any  stock-raiser  and  he  will  tell 


160  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

you  it  is  much  simpler  to  provide  suitable  nourish- 
ment for  female  stock  than  for  males. 

The  best  way  to  cure  a  man  of  being  finicky  about 
food  is  to  starve  him,  put  as  little  on  the  table  as 
possible.  But  he  is  sure  to  resent  that,  because 
almost  without  exception  they  have  the  plentiful 
eye  and  resent  penury  in  dishes  even  when  they  re- 
fuse to  take  what  is  set  before  them.  Likewise  the 
rations  of  the  gluttonous  husband  should  be  ruth- 
lessly cut,  because  the  more  you  give  him  the  more 
he  wants.  But  he  becomes  savage  when  he  is  not 
gratified,  or  he  flings  himself  out  of  the  house  to  a 
restaurant  where  gorging  is  encouraged  for  strictly 
business  reasons. 

There  is  another  side  to  this.  Many  a  woman  has 
ruined  her  digestion  eating  the  things  she  despised 
because  they,  were  the  foods  her  husband  preferred, 
and  served  exclusively  for  that  reason. 

In  short  you  may  marry  a  man  who  is  of  a  differ- 
ent religious  creed,  or  with  no  creed  at  all,  and  still 
be  reasonably  happy  with  him,  because  religious 
differences  are  usually  confined  to  the  seventh  day 
of  the  week,  but  if  his  taste  in  food  is  radically 
different  from  your  taste,  it  is  a  three-times-a-day- 
every-day  difference,  and  much  more  serious. 
Therefore  when  you  contemplate  marrying  a  man 
because  you  love  him,  and  because  he  has  every 
virtue,  ask  him  what  he  does  not  eat!  Nine  times 
out  of  ten  you  will  see  him  covered  with  the  confu- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  161 

sion  of  strong  guilt.  You  will  discover  that  he  is  a 
pie  fiend,  or  that  he  has  an  abnormal  antipathy  to 
certain  staple  foods.  In  this  case,  if  you  value  your 
peace  and  happiness  as  the  mistress  of  his  house, 
defer  the  wedding;  do  not  marry  him  until  he  can 
certify  and  prove  a  regulated  appetite  for  sensible 
dishes. 

In  this  first  heart-to-heart  talk  with  Windy 
about  his  indifference  to  nourishment,  Betty  said 
she  thought  it  was  because  he  smoked  so  much.  He 
agreed  that  this  probably  had  something  to  do 
with  it. 

"Well,  then,  Windy,  why  smoke  at  all?"  she 
asked. 

It  was  a  reasonable  question,  but  he  regarded  her 
with  a  sort  of  helpless  horror  as  if  she  had  suggested 
that  he  stop  breathing. 

"Smoking  is  bad  for  you,"  she  said. 

It  was,  but  how  was  a  man  who  smoked  to  do 
without  smoking"?  It  was  a  habit,  he  explained 
to  her. 

That  made  no  difference.  Habits  had  been 
broken  and  could  be  broken.  Therefore  he  must 
not  smoke.  It  made  her  very  unhappy.  Couldn't 
he  give  it  up  for  her  sake? 

This  was  inevitable.  It  is  one  of  the  sterner 
evidences  of  passionate  devotion  for  her  husband 
that  makes  the  young  wife  undertake  to  break  him 


162  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

from  the  obnoxious,  poisonous,  and  debilitating 
weed  known  as  tobacco. 

Cutmore  agreed  to  quit  smoking,  for  her  sake, 
he  told  her,  not  that  he  thought  he  could  do  it,  but 
he  thought  it  would  be  the  quickest  way  to  convince 
her  that  he  could  not. 

She  was  very  happy.  She  was  so  until  noon  of 
the  next  day  when  Cutmore  came  home  to  lunch,  a 
changed  man.  He  was  like  one  who  holds  himself 
together  by  a  desperate  effort  of  the  will,  but  who 
is  now  capable  of  the  most  ferocious  deeds.  He 
could  not  speak  to  his  dear  Betty  without  snapping. 

She  embraced  him  tenderly  and  wanted  to  know 
what  on  earth  was  the  matter. 

He  told  her  roughly  that  nothing,  NOTHING,  was 
the  matter.  He  almost  shouted  this  lie  in  his  ner- 
vous anguish. 

They  had  no  conversation  that  evening.  Cut- 
more  sat  in  a  brooding  mood.  No,  he  did  not  want 
to  read! 

She  was  gratified,  however,  to  see  that  he  had 
partaken  heartily,  not  to  say  voraciously,  of  the 
roast  and  everything  else  at  dinner.  He  seemed 
to  be  eating  in  an  effort  to  find  something  that 
would  satisfy  a  peculiar,  gnawing  hunger. 

She  called  his  attention  to  this  splendid  appetite 
and  said  it  proved  conclusively  her  contention  that 
he  only  needed  to  stop  smoking. 

He  wolfed  up  and  snarled  a  wordless  reply. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  16& 

That  night  Betty  lay  awake,  the  prey  to  strange 
alarms.  Windy  was  jumping  and  jerking  in  his 
sleep  like — oh,  God! — like  an  epileptic! 

She  made  a  resolution.  If  Windy  lived  through 
the  night  and  was  sane  the  next  morning  he  should 
have  his  cigar.  Yes,  she  would  not  endanger  his 
life  even  if  he  starved  to  death  from  smoking. 

She  arose  early,  while  it  was  yet  dark,  like  the 
woman  in  the  Scriptures  whose  husband  praised  her 
within  the  gates.  She  crept,  a  ghostly  little  white 
figure,  into  the  parlor  where  she  had  concealed 
Windy's  last  box  of  cigarets.  She  found  them, 
came  back,  turned  on  the  light,  took  one  look  at  her 
husband's  drawn  and  stricken  face,  which  was  cov- 
ered with  the  dew  that  follows  the  sudden  sacrifice 
of  tobacco. 

"Windy!"  she  murmured,  laying  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder  and  shaking  him  gently. 

He  made  a  hideous,  guttural  sound,  such  as  a 
man  sometimes  growls  in  a  bad  dream.  He  sat  up, 
eyes  blazing,  hair  erect,  the  very  incarnation  of 
ferocity,  ready  to  defend  himself.  And  he  saw 
Betty  standing  at  arms  length  from  the  bed  as  if 
she  dared  not  approach  nearer.  With  a  shaking 
hand  she  was  offering  him  matches  and  cigarets. 

"Here,  Windy,  please  smoke  one  for  my  sake," 
she  quavered. 

Few  women  would  have  had  the  sense  to  make 
such  a  quick  surrender.  But  it  is  far  better  if  your 


164  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

husband  has  a  reasonable,  respectable  sin  to  let  him 
have  it  and  exercise  it  in  peace  even  if  it  kills  him, 
because  he  must  have  at  least  one.  No  man  com- 
posed entirely  of  virtues  is  endurable. 


CHAPTER  IX 

You  may  make  due  allowance  for  Providence  in 
your  affairs,  even  for  the  devil.  You  may  count 
with  reasonable  certainty  upon  what  your  friends 
will  do,  and  you  can  keep  tab  on  your  enemies,  but 
you  never  can  tell  what  your  relatives  will  do. 
When  you  least  expect  it  they  step  in  and  take  a 
hand.  They  will  neglect  their  own  business,  deny 
themselves  the  usual  comforts,  and  take  a  journey 
in  order  to  review  you  and  give  you  advice,  espe- 
cially if  you  are  a  young  and  untried  relative. 

Betty  had  counted  happily  upon  this  first  month 
of  her  married  life  as  being  sacred  to  her  and  Windy 
in  their  home,  since  her  friends  were  still  out  of 
town  and  would  be  until  late  in  September.  But 
she  reckoned  without  her  aunt  Theodosia. 

One  day  when  Cutmore  came  home  for  lunch  he 
found  Betty  in  reduced  circumstances,  spiritually 
speaking.  She  was  grave  with  the  air  of  one  who 
bears  an  unwelcome  responsibility. 

"What  is  it*?"  he  demanded  at  once. 

"Aunt  Theodosia  arrives  on  the  four  o'clock  ex- 
press!" she  announced  with  her  head  turned  the 

other  way. 

165 


166  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"Good  Lord,  Betty,  what  are  we  to  do!"  he  ex- 
claimed, horrified. 

"Do?"  she  returned,  facing  about.  "We  must 
make  her  welcome  of  course." 

"How  long  will  she  remain  with  us4?"  he  asked. 

"She  doesn't  say;  that  depends  upon  circum- 
stances, I  suppose,"  she  said,  intimating  that  the 
word  circumstance  in  this  connection  depended  upon 
her  aunt  Theodosia's  state  of  mind. 

He  made  a  mental  note  of  that.  He  decided 
that  if  he  had  anything  to  do  with  her  state  of  mind 
she  would  make  a  very  brief  visit. 

Betty  said  she  would  meet  her;  she  would  spare 
him  as  long  as  she  could.  Then  she  went  up  to 
him,  laid  her  hand  upon  his  breast,  which  was  a 
pretty  beseeching  habit  she  had,  and  looked  up  at 
him  like  a  blue-eyed  prayer. 

"Windy,  could  you  bring  yourself  to  address  her 
as  Aunt  Theodosia*?"  she  entreated. 

He  would  not!  She  was  not  his  aunt;  she  was 
only  Betty's  aunt  because  Betty  could  not  help 
herself. 

"But  I'll  compromise  by  not  calling  her  any- 
thing. That  is  the  best  possible  Anglo-Saxon  man- 
ner in  social  intercourse,"  he  told  her. 

When  he  returned  in  the  late  afternoon  Mrs. 
Carvel  had  arrived.  She  was  enthroned  in  the 
parlor,  skirts  spread,  fan  waving. 

Cutmore  executed  his  most  formal  bow  as  he  ad- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  167 

vanced  to  meet  her.  His  teeth  chattered  in  the 
effort  to  say  he  was  glad  to  see  her,  but  he  said  it 
because  Betty's  eye  was  on  him. 

"How  do  you  do,  Windham*?"  she  said,  delib- 
erately pulling  him  down  by  the  hand  she  held  and 
pecking  him  on  the  cheek. 

He  told  her  he  was  very  well. 

"You  look  well,  much  better  than  I  ever  saw  you. 
but  my  niece  does  not  look  well,"  she  added,  imply- 
ing that  somebody  was  to  blame  for  this. 

Betty  hastened  to  say  that  she  had  never  felt 
better.  She  supposed  the  intense  heat  made  one  a 
little  pale. 

They  went  in  to  dinner.  It  was  a  dreary  affair. 
Betty  talked  feverishly.  Mrs.  Carvel  was  hearty 
enough,  but  monosyllabic.  Cutmore  was  practi- 
cally speechless,  and  became  more  so  after  the  old 
lady  intercepted  a  glance  he  tried  to  slip  Betty.  It 
seemed  that  she  resented  this  glance  as  if  it  were  a 
secret  communication  not  complimentary  to  her, 
when  it  was  really  an  imploring  look  for  forgive- 
ness. Afterward  when  Betty  reproached  him  for 
not  making  an  effort  to  be  agreeable  he  told  her  that 
he  had  never  made  a  more  strenuous  effort  in  his 
life,  but  that  nothing  came  of  it. 

Immediately  after  dinner  he  excused  himself. 
He  had  an  engagement,  he  said  and  took  his  leave. 

Mrs.  Carvel  fanned  herself  in  silence  for  a  min- 


168  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

ute.  The  atmosphere  of  this  house  was  too  tense 
to  have  been  created  by  happiness,  she  thought.  It 
was  as  she  had  predicted,  Betty's  marriage  was  a 
mistake,  and  Betty  was  a  miserable  woman. 

"Does  your  husband  stay  out  at  night  *?"  she  asked 
suddenly. 

"Oh,  no!"  Betty  answered,  startled. 

"But  he  is  out." 

"You  see,  Mr.  Puckle  is  away,"  Betty  answered, 
anxious  to  defend  her  husband,  "and  Windy  has 
a  great  deal  to  do.  So  sometimes  he  goes  back  to 
the  office  in  the  evenings." 

"Leaving  you  here  alone."  Her  tone  was  accu- 
sative. 

"No,  I  go  with  him.    He  likes  to  have  me." 

"What  do  you  do  up  there  *?"  suspecting  her  of 
clerical  drudgery. 

Betty  began  to  laugh. 

"The  funniest  thing.  You'd  never  guess!"  she 
said. 

Mrs.  Carvel  refused  to  speculate. 

"I  read  tauts,"  Betty  explained. 

"Tauts!     What  are  tauts  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

"They — why,  I  suppose  you  would  call  them  the 
parables  of  the  law,"  Betty  answered. 

It  sounded  blasphemous. 

"I  like  those  of  Chief  Justice  Marshall  best. 
Windy  says  I  would  make  a  good  lawyer.  He  says 
I  have  the  legal  mind,"  Betty  went  on. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  169 

The  following  day  she  had  another  struggle  with 
Cutmore  on  the  duties  of  hospitality. 

"We  ought  to  show  Aunt  Theodosia  some  atten- 
tion," she  said. 

"You  are  devoting  yourself  to  her,"  he  replied. 

"But  you  are  not,  Windy,"  reproachfully,  "and 
I  do  so  want  you  to  be  your  dear  self  to  her.  She 
likes  attention." 

"What  would  you  suggest4?"  he  asked  coolly. 
"There  are  the  races  at  the  Fair  ground  this  week." 

"Oh,  never  anything  like  that!"  she  warned  him. 
"I  was  thinking  you  might  take  her  for  a  drive,"  she 
offered  timidly. 

"In  the  roadster !"  he  exclaimed. 

This  was  a  very  smart,  swift,  little  car,  built  for 
two,  who  were  supposed  to  be  of  medium  size. 

"Why  not?  Aunt  Theodosia  is  quite  large,  but 
you  are  not.  I  am  sure  she  would  enjoy  it.  You 
are  such  a  splendid  driver,  dear !" 

"Very  well,"  he  agreed  grimly,  implying  that  let 
it  be  upon  her  own  head. 

So  it  was  arranged,  Betty  having  told  her  that 
Windy  was  "dying"  to  show  her  the  wonderful 
scenery  around  Millidge.  She  doubted  this  ardor. 
She  considered  that  young  man  a  very  cool  propo- 
sition. But  she  wanted  to  "talk  to  him,"  and  this 
would  afford  an  excellent  opportunity. 

Betty  had  her  misgivings  when  at  five  o'clock, 
with  Aunt  Theodosia  wedged  into  the  car,  Windy 


170  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

let  go  his  cut-out  and  whirled  at  a  terrific  speed 
from  the  curb.  He  was  a  smooth  and  noiseless 
driver,  but  he  handled  the  car  as  if  it  had  been  a 
truck  with  deafening  roars  and  snortings.  She  saw 
the  old  lady's  elbows  spread  at  the  first  jolt,  saw 
her  rear  back  and  brace  her  feet,  saw  Windy 's  face 
grimly  set  above  the  wheel. 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  Carvel  staggered  through  the 
door  of  the  Cutmore  residence  into  her  niece's  arms. 
She  permitted  herself  to  be  guided  to  the  sofa  in  the 
parlor.  She  was  determined  to  faint  and  could  not 
make  it. 

"That  man!  Betty,  you  have  married  a  mad- 
man!" she  gasped,  as  Betty  flew  back  and  forth  and 
hovered  over  her  with  the  smelling-salts. 

"I  should  have  warned  you  that  Windy  is  a  very 
swift  driver,"  she  said. 

"He  is  worse  than  swift,  he  is  reckless!  Time 
and  again  we  took  curves  in  the  road  on  two 
wheels!" 

Next  time  Betty  said  she  would  warn  Windy  to 
drive  at  a  more  moderate  rate  of  speed. 

"There  will  be  no  next  time!"  Mrs.  Carvel 
groaned. 

She  only  hoped  she  would  recover  sufficiently 
from  this  shock  to  be  able  to  return  to  Culloden  to- 
morrow !  To  this  end  she  went  to  bed  at  once  and 
did  not  rise  for  breakfast  the  next  morning. 

She  told  Mrs.  Marshall  all  about  it  and  every- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  171 

thing  else  when  she  arrived  in  Culloden  the  next 
day,  "more  dead  than  alive,"  as  she  expressed  it. 
She  had  felt  from  the  moment  she  entered  Betty's 
door  that  there  was  a  bomb  in  the  house.  She  had 
felt  that  an  explosion  was  imminent  any  moment. 
No  doubt  her  presence  there  suppressed  for  the  time 
that  man's  tendency  to  explode.  "That"  was  a  title 
which  she  conferred  upon  Cutmore.  She  always 
preceded  his  name  with  this  whacking  term.  She 
was  sure  Betty  was  more  than  unhappy;  she  was 
frightened,  and  well  she  might  be!  "That"  man 
was  a  madman,  and  Betty  probably  knew  it  by  this 
time.  She  gave  a  thrilling  account  of  her  Paul  Re- 
vere ride  with  Cutmore.  She  said  if  he  did  nothing 
worse  he  would  kill  Betty  in  that  car.  The  only 
reason  why  she  was  not  tossed  out  of  it  like  a  feather 
was  because  she  was  not  a  feather,  thank  goodness ! 
and  by  her  sheer  weight  alone  had  kept  the  car  from 
turning  over,  and  so  on  and  so  forth. 

An  elderly  relative,  gender  usually  feminine, 
with  the  upsetting  eye  and  the  dismal  mind,  can 
come  nearer  spilling  the  matrimonial  beans  for  a 
young  couple  than  a  self-seeking  corespondent  of 
either  gender.  Love  must  have  become  steady  upon 
its  wedlock  foundations  before  it  is  safe  to  risk  one 
in  the  house.  They  are  sure  to  detect  inequalities 
in  this  marriage.  And  nothing  will  convince  them 
that  love  is  not  and  never  will  be  based  upon  mere 
justice,  but  upon  love  alone,  which  has  a  thousand 


172  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

secret  means  of  compensation  for  these  apparent 
inequalities.  > 

"Puckle's.back,"  Cutmore  announced  one  evening 
next  to  the  very  end  of  August. 

"I  know  you  are  glad,"  Betty  said. 

He  admitted  being  reasonably  glad.  Puckle  had 
been  away  two  months,  although  the  understanding 
when  he  left  was  that  he  would  return  in  a  month. 

"That  shows  how  much  confidence  he  has  in  you, 
Windy." 

She  had  never  tired  of  taking  this  view,  which 
praised  her  husband.  She  went  on  talking  about 
it  now.  She  knew,  and  of  course  Mr.  Puckle  knew, 
how  competent  Windy  was,  but  the  way  he  trusted 
him  with  so  much  important  business  everybody 
must  see  and  understand,  which  was  very  good  for 
Windy' s  reputation. 

Cutmore  was  not  listening.  He  was  thinking  of 
something  else.  Presently  he  interrupted  her  to  say, 

"Puckle  is  a  much  older  man  than  I  thought.  He 
must  be  past  fifty." 

"You  don't  think  he  is  failing,  do  you?"  she 
asked,  anxiously,  because  she  did  not  want  Mr. 
Puckle  to  fail  until  Windy  was  well  established. 

"Well,  not  that  exactly.  But  he  isn't  keen  like 
a  younger  man  would  be.  This  morning  when  we 
were  going  over  new  cases  that  have  developed 
during  his  absence,  I  thought  he  showed  consider- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  173 

able  indifference.  He  said  I  was  to  handle  them 
entirely.  And  he  offered  a  new  division  of  fees 
that  was  very  liberal.  It  means  a  decided  increase 
in  our  income!" 

"We  must  have  him  out  to  dinner  at  once !"  Betty 
exclaimed. 

Cutmore  agreed  that  this  was  the  thing  to  do. 

"And  it  might  touch  him  up  to  come  out  here. 
He  looks  like  a  man  that  needed  a  reaction;  old,  as 
if  the  dust  was  settling  on  him.  Too  much  golf, 
probably." 

"What  does  he  like  to  eat  9"  Betty  asked,  ready 
to  begin  in  the  right  way  because  every  woman 
knows  you  "touch  up"  a  man  from  within,  and  that 
the  table  is  the  place  to  do  it. 

"The  only  time  I  ever  dined  with  him  he  ordered 
spinach,  Hamburger  steak,  and  ice-cream,"  he  an- 
swered ruefully. 

"Well,  we  will  have  that — and  lettuce,"  she 
added  maliciously. 

The  following  evening  Puckle  came  to  dine  with 
the  Cutmores.  He  came  like  a  man  who  dreads 
to  take  the  dearest  pleasure  that  could  be  offered 
because  this  pleasure*  would  cost  him  the  keenest 
pain. 

Betty  received  him  cordially,  with  the  high,  sweet 
patronage  of  a  young  mistress  and  hostess  in  her 
own  house. 

She  was  so  glad  to  see  him.    Yes,  and  he  was  look- 


174  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

ing  splendidly.  His  vacation  must  have  done  him 
a  lot  of  good. 

With  this  little  lie  she  brushed  the  "dust"  off,  to 
which  Windy  had  referred,  because  one  glance  at 
him  confirmed  Windy's  report  that  he  was  looking 
old  and  tired. 

Puckle  received  these  attentions  lumpishly.  As 
usual  his  clothes  seemed  to  be  climbing  upon  him; 
his  coat  could  have  fitted,  but  refused  to  fit.  His 
trousers  had  well-defined  knees  in  them.  He  had 
yielded  the  struggle  as  a  woman  does  when  she  gives 
up  cultivating  her  waist-line  at  forty.  Henceforth 
he  would  play  the  part  Providence  assigned  to  him, 
which  in  this  house  seemed  to  be  that  of  honorary 
father  to  Betty,  and  purveyor  of  praises  for  Betty's 
husband. 

He  held  her  hand  a  trifle  longer  than  was  neces- 
sary, then  dropped  it  because  he  saw  that  Betty  did 
not  care  how  long  he  held  it.  He  looked  down  into 
her  eyes  just  once,  then  dropped  his  because  there 
was  nothing  about  him  to  read  there,  and  he  knew 
it.  Still  that  hurt.  He  permitted  her  to  choose 
the  largest  best  chair  in  the  parlor  for  him.  He 
told  her  how  glad  he  was  to  get  back  and  find  her 
and  Windy  married  and  settled  and  ready  to  be 
happy  ever  afterward.  Then  he  became  silent,  be- 
cause it  was  an  effort  to  say  anything  at  all.  He 
watched  Betty  whisk  in  and  out  of  the  room. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  175 

He  must  be  thirsty,  it  was  so  warm !  She  brought 
him  a  glass  of  water  with  her  own  hands.  He  stood 
up  like  a  man  to  drink  it  and  watched  her  tuck  back 
the  fairy  lock  of  hair  while  she  waited  for  the  glass. 
Then  she  came  back  and  turned  the  shade  on  a  light 
so  that  it  would  not  shine  in  his  eyes,  as  if  his  eyes 
must  be  weak  at  his  time  of  life.  She  talked  inces- 
santly. She  asked  him  a  dozen  endearing  questions 
about  himself.  She  was  so  gay,  as  if  she  begged  a 
smile  of  him,  and  she  got  it.  Whereupon  she 
thought  of  something.  She  seized  a  pillow  from 
the  sofa  and  approached  him. — Oh,  God,  she  ap- 
proached with  a  pillow! — She  wanted  him  to  stuff 
it  behind  his  back.  That  chair  never  fitted  any 
normal  person.  She  believed  it  was  designed  for 
one  with  curvature  of  the  spine ! 

He  surrendered.  He  collapsed,  a  mussed-up  old 
man  in  his  years.  He  was  miserable  under  these 
ministrations,  knowing  what  they  meant,  which  was 
so  different  from  the  way  he  had  felt  toward  Betty 
and  must  feel  no  more.  He  said  that  to  himself 
many  times  daily. 

Cutmore  came  down-stairs  at  last  and  they  went 
in  to  dinner. 

It  was  a  very  gay  dinner.  Betty  furnished  the 
gayety.  Cutmore  may  be  said  to  have  "rooted"  for 
his  wife.  He  applauded  her  with  shining  eyes  of 
appreciation.  He  sometimes  referred  to  Betty's 
"subliminal  uprush"  when  she  was  in  one  of  these 


176  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

moods  of  frantic  happiness.  Pucklc  was  a  third 
party.  He  was  conscious  that  they  labored  with 
him,  but  he  hung  fire.  He  was,  however,  making  a 
very  hearty  meal.  The  steak  was  especially  to  his 
liking.  Once  when  Puckle  lowered  his  head  with 
concentrated  attention  to  the  food  on  his  plate, 
Betty  telegraphed  her  triumph  to  Windy,  by  a 
greedy  gesture  with  her  fork.  She  had  been  wise 
to  have  that  Hamburger,  although  an  onion  was  re- 
garded as  an  unholy  thing  in  that  house  because  of 
its  pungent  plebeian  odor. 

They  went  back  in  the  parlor  for  coffee.  Then 
Cutmore  strolled  out  on  the  veranda  for  a  breath  of 
air  to  cleanse  his  nose  of  the  onion  scent.  He  asked 
Puckle  to  join  him  for  a  smoke,  but  Puckle  preferred 
to  remain  inside  the  cool,  fragrant  room  with  Betty. 
He  was  beginning  to  respond  to  his  food  like  the 
gracious,  contented  animal  a  man  is  when  his  dinner 
agrees  with  him.  He  told  Betty  a  few  well-chosen 
things  about  her  husband.  He  expressed  his  confi- 
dence and  high  regard  for  that  young  man.  Betty 
purred  with  satisfaction.  She  said,  of  course,  Mr. 
Puckle  must  know  by  this  time  what  a  dear  Windy 
was.  He  nodded  gravely,  although  "dear"  was  not 
the  adjective  he  would  have  chosen  as  a  decoration 
for  Cutmore.  Then  he  allowed  her  to  fill  his  cup 
with  coffee  again,  not  that  he  wanted  it,  but  she 
insisted  and  he  could  refuse  her  nothing.  He 
watched  Betty  perched  delicately  upon  the  edge  of 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  177 

her  chair  holding  the  fragile  cup  and  saucer,  sipping 
her  coffee. 

He  thought  it  was  very  pretty,  the  whole  thing, 
this  cavernous  room  with  its  lofty  ceiling,  half 
lighted  yet  glistening  with  a  thousand  angles  of 
reflected  light  from  the  polished  surface  of  every- 
thing. The  cool,  blue-satin  curtains  that  were 
drawn  back  from  the  windows.  The  vase  of  opu- 
lent red  roses  that  sweetened  it  with  a  fine  perfume, 
and  this  girl  seated  so  daintily  in  one  of  the  tall- 
backed  spindle-legged  chairs  holding  that  golden- 
rimmed  coffee-cup  like  a  flower  in  her  hand.  She 
was  sparing  her  eyes  only  because  Cutmore  was  not 
there.  He  began  to  make  a  holy  brief  in  his  mind 
about  these  eyes.  He  was  not  listening  to  what  she 
was  saying  about  Windy.  They  were  of  that  im- 
mortal shade  of  blue,  seen  only  in  the  eyes  of  wo- 
men; men  could  not  have  it,  because  it  was  a  gift 
which  belonged  to  women  alone,  and  never  fades. 
A  tender,  beseeching  blue  like  the  color  of  prayers 
before  secret  altars.  One  must  remember  eyes  like 
that  forever,  he  thought,  and  sighed  heavily. 

This  was  the  first  Betty  knew  of  his  discomfort. 
She  regarded  him  with  startled  attention,  as  if  he 
were  a  dear  sick  old  man  who  had  moaned  in  his 
sleep  and  must  be  turned  over  at  once.  She  came 
hastily  to  her  feet  and  conducted  him  forth  to  the 
veranda. 


178  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"This  room  is  stifling,"  she  said  as  they  went 
out,  "and  you  must  have  your  smoke." 

She  confided  to  him  before  they  reached  Cutmore 
at  the  far  end  that  Windy  could  not  possibly  do 
without  his  smoke.  She  said  in  a  whisper  that  not 
to  smoke  made  him  jump  and  grind  his  teeth.  At 
which  astonishing  bit  of  information  Puckle  made 
a  singularly  musing  sound  through  his  nose,  non- 
committal but  confidential. 

After  this  time  Puckle  came  every  Wednesday 
evening  to  dine  with  the  Cutmores.  He  could  not 
deny  himself  this  pleasure.  And  in  any  case  Betty 
would  not  have  permitted  him  to  do  so.  She 
thought  a  little  home  life  would  be  good  for  Mr. 
Puckle. 

One  evening  early  in  October  when  he  came  as 
usual  he  discovered  almost  at  once  that  a  slight  frost 
had  fallen  in  this  house.  Betty  was  amiable  but  not 
gay.  And  she  was  amiable  with  a  note  of  sadness 
in  her  dear  blue  eyes  as  if  it  were  her  duty  to  be 
amiable. 

The  dinner  went  off  as  usual.  They  discussed 
their  friends,  the  anti-labor  unions,  the  President, 
the  Peace  Treaty,  then  they  went  back  to  their 
friends.  Everybody  had  returned  to  town.  And 
all  these  everybodies  had  called  on  Betty.  She  was 
in  the  midst  of  a  round  of  entertainments  which 
were  being  given  in  her  honor.  Cutmore  said  she 
was  even  more  popular  as  a  bride  than  she  had  been 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  179 

as  a  belle.  She  said  it  was  all  very  nice  and  she 
had  enjoyed  it,  with  an  air  of  reserve,  as  if  she  were 
no  longer  in  full  possession  of  her  faculties  for  en- 
joying things.  Then  she  changed  the  subject  and 
remarked  upon  how  well  Sarah  Crombie  was  look- 
ing. This  reminded  Cutmore  that  he  had  seen 
Sarah  playing  golf  with  Gussie  Towne,  whereupon 
Puckle  said  "Humph!"  in  a  contemptuous  tone  of 
the  nose,  adding  that  he  supposed  this  was  the  rea- 
son why  Towne  played  such  rotten  golf  with  him 
that  afternoon.  Ruined  a  man's  game  to  play  golf 
with  a  woman. 

"Yes,  but  it  sometimes  settles  him,"  Cutmore 
put  in. 

"How?"  Puckle  wanted  to  know. 

"Matrimonially.  Betty  has  always  said  Sarah 
would  end  by  marrying  Towne,"  Cutmore  ex- 
plained, and  looked  to  her  for  confirmation  of  this 
prophecy. 

She  did  not  catch  this  look ;  she  allowed  it  simply 
to  fall  on  her.  And  she  was  not  disposed  to  impute 
matrimony  to  any  one.  Her  interest  in  this  subject 
was  very  low,  it  seemed. 

Puckle,  taking  his  food  with  heavy,  rhythmic 
strokes  of  the  fork,  kept  his  thoughts  on  Betty  and 
talked  to  conceal  his  concentration.  She  said  "yes," 
or  "no,"  gently,  when  she  was  required  to  say  any- 
thing. If  this  was  a  family  quarrel  Betty  was  con- 
ducting it  privately  and  alone,  he  decided.  Cut- 


180  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

more  was  the  transgressor,  but  he  was  not  in  his 
wife's  confidence.  Puckle  doubted  if  he  even  sus- 
pected her.  Husbands  are  like  that.  They  are  so 
sure  of  their  wives  sometimes  that  they  are  blind 
to  the  change  of  weather  in  love.  Puckle  wondered 
if  Betty  had  somehow  discovered  one  or  the  other 
of  her  husband's  dangerous  qualities.  He  thought 
she  had  and  was  probably  now  in  the  sad  process 
of  digesting  it. 

All  this  time  he  was  telling  Cutmore  about  How- 
ard Crombie's  new  car.  He  had  seen  it.  The  thing 
was  a  beauty.  He  had  about  decided  to  get  a  car 
himself.  Followed  the  usual  animadversions  on  the 
different  automobiles  a  man  could  cheat  himself 
into  buying. 

They  came  out  from  dinner.  Cutmore  excused 
himself.  He  must  adjust  a  wire  on  his  car.  The 
ignition  was  bad. 

There  was  enough  chill  in  the  air  to  warrant  a 
fire  if  you  really  loved  a  fire,  and  Betty  did.  Puckle 
sat  down  in  the  armchair  before  the  blazing  hearth 
in  the  parlor. 

"This  is  fine,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

She  said  yes,  it  was.  A  fire  was  so  companion- 
able. Then  she  descended  into  silence,  not  wil- 
lingly, but  as  if  she  did  not  have  the  heart  to  keep 
out  and  up  where  words  are  plentiful  and  waiting 
to  be  spoken.  She  seemed  to  withdraw  into  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  181 

depths  of  her  chair.  She  stared  at  the  fire.  He 
could  not  tell  if  it  was  the  light  that  made  them 
glisten  as  if  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Well,  if  there  were  tears  in  Betty's  eyes,  some- 
thing must  be  done  about  it!  He  fumbled  this 
matter.  Never  having  been  a  student  of  the  femi- 
nine he  was  short  on  methods  and  medicines.  After 
several  attempts  to  engage  her  in  conversation  he 
led  skilfully  up  to  the  subject  of  happiness,  which 
ought  to  be  a  fruitful  one.  But  it  was  not.  It 
seemed  that  she  did  not  care  for  happiness  this  eve- 
ning. Instead  she  asked  him  if  he  thought  it  was 
cold  enough  for  frost  that  night. 

He  said  he  never  could  keep  up  with  the  weather. 
Then  he  went  back  awkwardly  and  obviously  to  this 
business  of  happiness.  He  made  a  little  two-minute 
talk  on  this  theme,  wrapping  it  around  Betty  with 
cunning  care. 

Betty  turned  her  head  presently  and  lifted  her 
eyes.  Puckle  instantly  averted  his.  It  was  a  way 
he  had  of  disappearing  in  case  he  had  missed  his 
cue.  But  when  she  said  nothing  for  so  long  a  time, 
he  was  obliged  to  stick  his  head  up,  so  to  speak,  in 
order  to  find  out  what  was  going  on.  She  was  re- 
garding him  with  a  grave  little  smile  much  too  old 
and  sadly  sweet. 

"You  do  not  know  much  about  happiness,  do  you, 
Mr.  Puckle'?"  she  asked. 

"No,  not  very  much,"  he  answered  thoughtfully. 


182  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"I  do,"  she  said,  speaking  with  absurd  authority. 

"Of  course  you  do,"  he  returned  cheerfully. 

"So  I  have  discovered  something  about  it,"  she 
went  on. 

"About  happiness?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"Yes.  It  can  not  possibly  last.  It  is  a  thing  you 
must  use  up  at  once  or  it  spoils.  Because  when  you 
try  to  keep  it,  it  ceases  to  be  the  surprise  that  is  the 
very  nature  of  happiness." 

She  was  sitting  like  a  little  portrait  in  her  tall- 
backed  chair,  her  eyes  once  more  fixed  upon  the  fire. 

"So,"  she  went  on,  glancing  at  him  with  a  sort 
of  cunning  wisdom,  "that  is  why  the  fathers  wrote 
it  in  so  clearly  in  the  Constitution  of  this  country, 
every  man  entitled  to  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit 
of  happiness !  They  knew !  You  never  get  it,  you 
pursue  it." 

"Bless  my  soul,  Betty,"  he  exclaimed,  having  by 
this  time  come  to  call  her  by  that  nearer  name,  "how 
can  you  possibly  know  such  old  stuff?" 

She  moved,  sat  stiffly  erect,  folded  her  hands, 
parted  her  lips  in  a  sigh  that  could  not  be  heard,  but 
he  saw  it.  She  reminded  him  of  the  first  vision  he 
had  of  her,  that  night  at  the  ball.  The  little,  wish- 
ful hands,  the  long  gaze  straight  ahead. 

"Some  knowledge  we  seek  in  vain  all  our  lives," 
she  began,  speaking  very  softly,  "but  this  that  be- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  183 

longs  to  living,  it  comes  to  us.  We  get  it  when 
we  should — should  do  much  better  without  it." 

Before  he  could  think  of  what  to  say  in  rebuttal, 
feeling  that  he  must  deny  this  truth  which  she  had 
discovered  too  soon,  she  changed,  she  smiled  and 
glistened.  She  lifted  her  hands  and  made  sure  her 
fairy  lock  was  not  escaping,  looking  up  at  him 
prettily  as  she  did  this. 

"But  of  course  you  know  that  I  am  perfectly 
happy,"  she  said  in  shameless  contradiction. 

"Yes,  Betty,  no  one  would  doubt  that,"  he  re- 
turned, quickly  helping  her  with  this  deceit. 

It  was  pathetic  now  to  watch  the  art  with  which 
she  counterfeited  gayety.  She  was  determined  to 
convince  Mr.  Puckle  how  happy  she  was.  She  was 
ready  to  gossip,  anything  to  change  the  subject. 
What  kind  of  husband  did  he  think  Sarah  Crombie 
would  make  of  Mr.  Towne*?  Oh,  yes,  in  reply  to 
something  he  said,  women  always  made  their  hus- 
bands. The  law  only  bequeathed  a  man  to  them, 
and  then  they  produced  a  husband  from  this  raw 
material  according  to  their  skill  in  that  business! 
She  did  not  doubt  that  Sarah  would  be  very  skilful. 
She  wondered,  however,  if  Sarah  could  ever  make 
anything  but  a  husband  of  Mr.  Towne.  He  was 
not  very  energetic,  was  he1?  Puckle  admitted  that 
he  was  not.  He  said  Gussie  belonged  to  the  super- 
fluous class. 


184  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"And  a  mere  husband  is  a  poor  thing,"  Betty 
added  soberly. 

Puckle  laughed  at  this  shrewd  definition  of  a 
parasite  man. 

They  had  wandered  far  afield  from  this  local 
love-affair  when  Cutmore  came  in  half  an  hour  later. 

Puckle  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
grinning. 

"Betty  has  just  said  a  smart  thing,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing Cutmore. 

"She  is  forward  about  that,"  Cutmore  answered 
with  affected  severity.  "She  frequently  says  the 
things  that  I  could  easily  have  said  myself  if  I  could 
only  think  fast  enough  to  do  it." 

"She  thinks  the  Bolsheviki  and  red  radicals  gen- 
erally are  the  arch-profiteers.  She  calls  them  the 
Calaban  financiers  and  says  they  want  all  the  profits 
and  business  to  go  on  by  natural  processes,  not  by 
labor." 

Cutmore  chose  a  cigaret  and  lighted  it. 

"And  she  thinks  everybody  is  a  profiteer,  a  sort 
of  subconscious  Bolsheviki,  who  does  not  save  and 
pay  his  debts " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  say  that,"  she  interrupted  quickly. 

"Not  exactly  that,"  Puckle  admitted. 

"Betty  is  becoming  a  household  propagandist. 
She  talks  in  circles  around  and  about  thrift  and 
economy,"  Cutmore  said,  faintly  displeased. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  185 

"Tightening  her  little  capitalistic  fist,"  Puckle 
put  in,  decidedly  pleased. 

"It  is  just  that  I  believe  in  squaring  accounts. 
Not  using  nor  keeping  what  does  not  really  belong 
to  us,"  she  answered  defensively. 

Cutmore  glanced  inquisitively  at  his  wife,  who 
continued  to  stare  into  the  fire. 

No  woman  can  look  so  innocent  as  one  who  has 
just  been  guilty  of  a  blow  beneath  the  belt. 

The  grin  faded  from  Puckle' s  rubicund  counte- 
nance. He  felt  the  chill  of  steel,  saw  the  flash  of 
Betty's  keen  blade.  He  understood  now  what  was 
the  matter.  But  he  was  sure  Cutmore  did  not  know. 
When  a  man  has  lived  with  his  dearest  fault  a  long 
time  with  no  one  to  inspect  it  or  call  it  by  the 
right  name,  he  ceases  to  be  conscious  of  it  although 
it  may  have  become  the  very  nose  of  his  character, 
as  prominent  a  part  of  him  as  that. 

Puckle  was  certain  that  Betty  had  been  delicately 
tweaking  this  nose,  and  that  presently  Cutmore 
would  feel  the  twinge.  He  decided  it  was  time  to 
go  home.  He  was  very  much  relieved  about  Betty. 
Cutmore  accompanied  him  to  the  door. 

When  he  returned  to  the  parlor  Betty  was  cross- 
ing the  floor  to  meet  him.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
his  face  as  if  this  man  was  no  longer  entirely  fa- 
miliar to  her.  Women  sometimes  look  at  their  hus- 
bands with  this  "I-never-knew-you"  expression  even 


186  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

after  they  have  been  married  to  them  for  twenty 
years.  It  is  the  worst  kind  of  accusation. 

Cutmore  halted  and  stiffened  with  instinctive 
masculine  resentment  and  stared  coldly  at  Betty, 
meaning  that  he  had  always  expected  her  to  pull  off 
some  such  hysterical  stunt.  Whereupon  she  made 
a  rush  and  flung  herself  upon  his  breast. 

Cutmore  was  astonished.  You  must  live  with  a 
woman  a  long  time,  say  a  hundred  years,  before 
you  are  prepared  for  the  quick  change  in  her  weather. 

He  was  the  more  disturbed  because  she  was 
sobbing  violently  and  because  he  could  not  pluck 
her  off,  nor  turn  her  face  up  for  inspection,  because 
she  pressed  it  convulsively  against  his  shoulder. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter1?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Nothing!"  she  sobbed. 

"But  there  must  be!"  he  insisted. 

"Windy,  I  want  to  go  home  to  mother,"  she 
moaned. 

This  was  serious.  His  wife  wished  to  leave  him ! 
He  dropped  the  arm  that  clasped  her.  He  became 
the  stiff,  cold  statue  of  outraged  honor,  affection, 
and  dignity.  She  remained  firmly  attached.  Her 
sobs  increased  in  volume.  He  made  a  determined 
effort  to  reach  the  chair  which  Puckle  had  left  be- 
side the  fire.  She  clung  to  him  as  a  drowning  man 
clings  to  a  spar.  She  arrived  with  him  and  de- 
scended with  him  into  this  large  chair.  And  she 
continued  to  weep. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  187 

He  was  horrified.  The  thing  had  happened  that 
always  happened  between  two  married  people. 
Something  had  come  between  him  and  Betty.  They 
could  never  be  the  same  to  each  other  after  this. 

This  was  the  truth.  They  never  are  after  that 
first  pallor  falls  upon  the  face  of  their  mutual 
love.  After  that  come  the  long  patient  life  to- 
gether and  all  the  kind  fruits  of  patience,  but  no 
more  perfect  happiness.  Never  again  that  first, 
perfect  confidence  they  had,  not  in  each  other,  but 
in  Almighty  Love  to  protect  this  happiness.  Love, 
you  understand,  can  endure  all  things,  but  there  are 
some  things  it  can  not  do. 

"Windy,  I  want  to  see  my  mother,"  Betty  re- 
peated in  a  wail. 

"Are  you  ill?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  answered  dolefully. 

"Have  I— have  I ?" 

He  was  about  to  ask  if  he  had  offended  her,  but 
the  very  idea  was  so  preposterous  that  he  stumbled 
for  the  right  words. 

"You  have  not"  Betty  answered  quickly. 

Then  she  sat  up,  her  eyes  like  violets  heavy  with 
dew,  her  face  tragically  pink  like  a  rose  in  a  high 
wind,  and  her  lips  trembled  with  tenderness. 

One  such  glance  she  gave  him  and  again  flung 
herself  upon  his  breast. 

"You  are  my  own,  my  very  own  Windy,   for 


188  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

better  or  for  worse!"  she  said  as  if  she  repeated 
a  sad  vow. 

"Yes,  but  what  is  the  worse1?  What  is  all  this 
about?"  he  demanded  indignantly. 

"I  want  to  be  with  mother,"  she  repeated. 

"But  why?' 

"I  can't  explain.  It  is  a  feeling,  and  very 
strong,"  she  answered. 

Well,  of  course  if  she  was  unhappy  and  wanted 
her  own  people  she  should  go! 

She  was  not  unhappy,  and  she  did  not  want  her 
own  people.  He  was  her  people,  but  she  had  to  be 
with  her  mother  if  only  for  a  few  hours. 

There  was  "something  back  of  all  this,"  though 
she  denied  it  to  the  last,  even  after  it  was  agreed 
that  she  run  down  to  Culloden  the  next  day.  She 
was  very  affectionate,  almost  as  if  he  were  a  cripple 
or  a  sick  person.  She  should  be  away  for  only  one 
day  and  night.  He  could  not  possibly  miss  her 
very  much  in  so  short  a  time. 

You  never  can  tell  what  kind  of  Providence  a 
Providence  is  until  later.  What  appears  to  be  an 
incident  or  an  accident  apparently  of  no  particular 
significance  may  change  the  whole  course  of  a  man's 
life.  He  has  not  planned  it,  no  one  has  planned  it, 
but  the  thing  happens,  and  there  he  is  involved  in 
a  sequence  of  events  from  which  neither  God  nor 
man  can  rescue  him. 


CHAPTER  X 

Cutmore  went  to  the  station  early  Thursday 
morning  and  saw  Betty  off  on  the  train  for  Cullo- 
den.  As  he  passed  back  through  the  station  to  his 
car  in  the  street  on  the  other  side  he  saw  a  soldier 
hunched  up  on  one  of  the  benches  there,  a  mere 
bundle  of  a  man  in  khaki,  apparently  asleep.  He 
noticed  him  only  because  there  were  now  very  few 
soldiers  returning  to  Millidge,  most  of  them  having 
been  discharged. 

He  drove  to  his  office  and  began  the  usual  routine 
of  business.  Late  in  the  morning  Puckle  came  in 
and  they  went  out  to  lunch  at  the  club.  When 
Puckle  heard  of  Betty's  visit  to  Culloden  he  mar- 
veled a  little  to  himself,  since  nothing  had  been  said 
of  this  visit  the  night  before.  He  thought  Cutmore 
looked  a  trifle  dreary  and  he  proposed  that  they  go 
out  for  a  game  of  golf  instead  of  returning  to  the 
office.  They  could  do  nothing  further  in  the  case 
in  hand  until  certain  important  papers  came  in  from 
another  city.  These  could  hardly  reach  them  before 
the  late  afternoon  mail. 

At  five  o'clock  they  returned  from  the  links  to 
Millidge.  Cutmore  dropped  Puckle  at  the  club  and 
went  on  to  the  office  to  look  over  the  mail. 

189 


190  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

He  saw  a  pile  of  letters  on  Smalley's  desk  as  he 
entered,  then  he  saw  Smalley  standing  before  the 
door  of  his  own  office;  probably  he  had  just  been 
in  there  for  something.  He  did  not  really  notice 
Smalley  at  all.  He  was  shuffling  the  letters,  found 
the  one  he  expected,  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and 
started  back  toward  the  stairs. 

"Just  leave  them  on  my  desk  before  you  go  out, 
Smalley,"  he  said.  Then  he  halted  and  stared  at 
the  little  spider-legged  clerk  in  astonishment  as  he 
careened  across  the  floor  with  his  heels  lifted,  arms 
spread,  balancing  himself  on  his  toes. 

"Wait,  sir,"  he  mumbled,  making  a  beckoning 
gesture. 

"I've  had  the  jumps  for  ten  minutes,"  he  whis- 
pered, letting  himself  down  beside  Cutmore. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"There's  a  man  in  your  office  waiting  to  see  you," 
he  explained. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Wouldn't  give  his  name;  said  you  would  know 
him.  But  he's  not  right,"  Smalley  answered. 

"You  say  he  knows  me?" 

"He  said  he  knew  you." 

Cutmore  started  for  the  door  of  his  office.  Smal- 
ley laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  go  in  there  alone,  sir,"  he  warned.  "He's 
a  soldier,  and  queer,  I  tell  you.  Something's  hap- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  191 

pened  to  him.  I  was  about  to  call  an  officer  when 
you  came  in." 

The  thought  of  Hayden  flashed  through  Cut- 
more's  mind.  He  seized  the  knob,  thrust  open  the 
door,  and  entered. 

The  shades  of  an  early  October  evening  had  dark- 
ened this  room.  But  in  the  dim  light  from  the 
window  he  made  out  a  huge  and  amorphous  shape 
hunched  up  in  one  of  the  chairs. 

This  was  not  Hayden,  he  decided,  fumbling  for 
the  switch.  He  found  it  and  turned  on  the  light. 

The  thing  in  the  chair  was  not  a  man.  It  was 
what  had  been  a  man.  The  back  was  hideously 
bowed,  the  chest  sunken,  the  neck  warped  in  the 
effort  to  hold  an  awful  head  erect.  The  face  was 
a  monstrous  mask,  seamed  with  scars.  One  side 
of  it  twitched,  a  grimacing  mouth.  The  pupils  of 
the  dark  eyes  were  dilated,  feverishly  bright — and 
fixed  in  a  sort  of  anguished  recognition  upon  Cut- 
more. 

Cutmore,  still  standing  just  inside  the  door,  felt 
the  sweat  pop  out  upon  his  face.  It  was  not  the 
sight  that  horrified  him  so  much  as  it  was  a  sense 
of  familiarity,  as  if  in  some  former  existence  he  had 
been  intimate  with  this  horror.  Then  he  realized 
that  the  man  was  addressing  him,  that  this  hoarse, 
metallic  sound  was  the  ghostly  whisper  of  what  had 
been  a  human  voice.  He  was  saying  something  in- 
distinct about  a  shell-hole  in  Flanders. 


192  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"My  God !    Not  Harpeth !"  Cutmore  exclaimed. 

The  man  wagged  his  horrible  head. 

Cutmore  came  slowly  toward  him,  bent  forward, 
staring  with  unbelieving  astonishment. 

Then  he  suddenly  seized  him  by  both  hands,  his 
eyes  wide  and  filled  with  tears.  He  drew  a  chair 
forward  and  flung  himself  into  it  and  sat  regarding 
this  wreck. 

"I  thought  we  all  died  that  night,"  Harpeth 
wheezed. 

"After  three  days  they  found  me  in  that  shell- 
hole,"  Cutmore  said. 

"That  was  the  last  I  remember,  dragging  you  into 
it  after  they  got  you,"  Harpeth  said. 

"The  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  in  a  German  hos- 
pital. Three  months  there.  Gassed,  shrapnel  shell 
through  my  back.  Then  in  a  German  prison  till 
the  armistice  freed  us. 

"Reported  dead,  couldn't  prove  I  wasn't.  Took 
a  long  time,"  he  finished  this  and  rested,  still  with 
his  feverish  eyes  fixed  in  a  question  on  Cutmore' s 
face. 

Cutmore  bowed  his*head.  He  could  not  bear  this 
wild  interrogative  stare  which  bore  no  relation  to 
what  the  man  was  saying.  He  began  to  tell  what 
had  happened  to  him,  and  realized  that  the  other 
was  not  listening. 

"Where  is  Hayden?"  Harpeth  interrupted.  "I 
know  about  that  court-martial." 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  193 

Then  Cutmore  understood  the  mad  demand  in 
the  wild  eyes. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  answered. 

"He  came  back  here.    I  know  that." 

"He  has  gone,"  Cutmore  returned. 

Then  he  got  up,  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
looked  into  the  outer  office.  Smalley  was  gone.  He 
came  back  to  Harpeth. 

"Come  on,"  he  said. 

They  went  out  and  down  the  steps  together. 

On  Saturday  morning  Betty,  who  had  returned 
from  Culloden  the  day  before,  found  a  bit  of  red 
braid  on  the  rug  before  the  hearth  in  the  parlor. 
When  Cutmore  came  home  in  the  evening  she 
showed  it  to  him. 

"Looks  like  a  wound-stripe,"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  it,  and  made  no  comment.  Then  he 
put  it  in  his  pocket  and  said  it  must  have  come  off 
his  uniform.  She  said  no;  she  had  gone  up  as  soon 
as  she  found  it  to  see  if  his  stripe  was  there  on  the 
sleeve,  and  it  was.  She  was  obliged  to  drop  the 
mystery  of  this  bit  of  braid  because  he  would  not 
discuss  it  further. 

But  she  remembered  it.  When  women  go  away 
from  home  and  return  they  always  look  for  "evi- 
dence." And  they  frequently  find  it.  Maybe  a 
profane,  antiprohibition  bottle,  maybe  nothing 
more  than  the  print  of  a  muddy  heel  on  the  parlor 


194  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

sofa.  But  you  can  not  keep  them  from  suspecting 
things,  even  if  they  find  no  evidence  at  all,  because 
it  is  rooted  and  grounded  in  every  wife's  mind  that 
her  husband  will  surely  go  astray  if  she  is  not  ever 
present  like  a  sub-providence  to  guide  his  naturally 
erring  footsteps. 

Meanwhile  Betty  was  making  an  involuntary  col- 
lection of  evidence  pertaining  to  her  husband's  char- 
acter and  previous  condition.  She  had  been  doing 
that  since  the  first  day  of  October,  when  eighteen 
bills  came  with  the  morning's  mail.  There  were 
ten  more  in  the  afternoon  mail. 

She  was  anxious  until  she  read  them.  Then  she 
was  horrified.  Some  of  them  were  of  comparatively 
recent  date;  others,  you  may  say,  were  old  enough 
to  walk.  And  the  total  sum  for  which  the  whole 
collection  called  amounted  to  more  than  two  thou- 
sand dollars. 

Creditors  are  remarkably  intelligent  beings. 
They  must  be,  because  so  many  debtors  are  singu- 
larly unintelligent.  Pressure  must  be  brought  to 
bear  on  them  in  every  possible  way  before  harsher 
measures  are  taken. 

After  his  marriage  Cutmore's  creditors  shrewdly 
guessed  that  bills  sent  to  his  residence  would  receive 
a  new  and  possibly  a  more  profitable  attention  than 
they  had  when  sent  to  his  office. 

Betty  suffered  vicariously,  and  in  a  way  not  de-- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  195 

signed  by  Cutmore's  creditors.  For  it  was  not  that 
he  owed  so  much  money  that  distressed  her  most, 
even  though  she  was  appalled  by  that,  but  it  was 
the  discovery  of  a  trait  in  Windy  which  she  was 
far  from  suspecting.  He  was  no  longer  a  whole 
and  perfect  man.  He  owed  of  his  substance  and 
his  honor  to  these  tradespeople.  The  very  clothes 
on  his  back  had  not  been  paid  for,  neither  those  on 
his  last  year's  back.  She  could  not  believe  that 
Windy  intended  to  pay  these  accounts  this  month, 
because  evidently  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  paying 
them.  His  habit  consisted  in  making  them. 

She  wept  in  secret  and  kept  her  own  counsel. 
She  probed  her  innocent  husband  on  his  ideas  of 
economy  and  financial  honor.  She  discovered  that 
he  had  no  ideas,  but  the  highest  ideals  along  this 
line.  He  was  a  cheerful  romanticist  when  it  came 
to  buying  what  he  wanted.  He  was  so  indifferent 
that  he  had  not  even  noticed  that  these  bills  had 
been  deflected  into  another  channel  of  communica- 
tion, and  were  no  longer  coming  to  his  office.  She 
knew  that  because  the  motto  of  these  ravenous 
creditors  seemed  to  be,  "Dun  and  repeat."  Every 
day  the  door-bell  rang,  and  she  was  called  down  to 
discipline  some  young  and  insistent  collector.  She 
knew  so  little  about  the  arguments  usually  em- 
ployed in  this  business  that  she  was  remarkably  ef- 
fective. She  invariably  dismissed  the  collector 
without  arguing  the  account  at  all.  She  treated 


196  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

them  as  if  they  were  book-agents,  if  you  know  what 
I  mean.  But  after  each  encounter  she  flew  up-stairs, 
flung  herself  across  the  bed,  and  wept. 

Oh,  her  Father  in  Heaven,  what  should  she  do 
about  this  dreadful  thing  that  was  darkening  her 
happiness  and  changing  her  love  to  pain,  and  which 
in  the  end  would  ruin  Windy  if  she  could  not  save 
him! 

Now  when  you  really  pray  that  earnestly  to  your 
Heavenly  Father  you  are  usually  led  to  do  some- 
thing remedial,  even  if  Providence  does  not  set  a 
pillar  of  fire  and  cloud  before  you  to  guide  you. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Betty  was  most  fearfully 
and  tremblingly  led  to  take  Windy's  creditors  by 
the  horns. 

During  the  second  week  in  October  she  made  a 
number  of  trips  down  into  the  very  dingy  heart  of 
Millidge.  Also,  strange,  dingy  men  were  received 
at  the  Cutmore  residence.  They  were  forthwith 
conducted  up  and  up  and  out  of  sight  of  Marie,  who 
stood  in  the  hall  below  wondering  what  could  be 
going  on. 

It  seemed  that  Betty  had  gone  to  Culloden,  much 
as  one  visits  the  scenes  of  one's  youth  before  taking 
a  plunge  into  the  terrible  and  unknown.  For  there 
is  no  doubt  that  she  returned  from  this  brief  visit, 
during  which,  by  all  acounts,  she  had  wearied  her 
family  by  a  recital  of  Windy's  virtues  only,  a 
sterner  and  braver  woman. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  197 

She  kissed  Windy  at  the  door  as  usual.  Still  he 
looked  at  her  after  this  kiss,  because  somehow  he 
had  the  feeling  that  it  was  a  casual  preoccupied  kiss, 
such  as  you  give  a  younger  person  when  you  have 
weightier  matters  in  mind. 

At  nine  o'clock  Betty  sent  Marie  to  the  market 
to  buy  the  usual  Sunday  dinner.  Also  she  was 
given  errands  that  would  undoubtedly  detain  her 
until  noon. 

Promptly  at  a  quarter  past  nine  a  huge  van  drew 
up  at  the  back  door  of  the  Cutmore  residence.  For 
the  next  two  hours  the  thunder  of  events  in  that 
house  attracted  the  attention  of  persons  passing  in 
the  street  below.  One  man  halted,  stared,  listened, 
and  considered  whether  he  should  go  in  and  see 
what  was  the  trouble.  It  sounded  violent,  loud 
voices  of  men  mingled  with  terrific  thumps.  Then 
he  reconsidered.  He  had  heard  that  a  bride  lived 
there  now.  Brides  were  frequently  awesome  per- 
sons. Let  her  take  what  was  coming  to  her. 

When  Marie  returned  at  half  past  eleven  o'clock 
there  was  no  sign  of  this  strange  activity,  except  the 
tracks  of  heavy  wheels  in  the  back  yard,  such  as  the 
ice-truck  always  left  there.  Mrs.  Cutmore  was 
seated  at  her  desk  prayerfully  going  over  bills  and 
accounts. 

There  is  usually  a  lull  after  some  one  near  you 
has  done  his  best  or  his  worst,  especially  if  it  is  not 
you  but  your  wife  who  has  performed  the  deed. 


198  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

She  reacts  before  your  very  eyes,  and  frequently  you 
are  unable  to  account  for  the  mildness  of  her  symp- 
toms because  you  are  not  nearly  so  much  in  her 
confidence  as  you  think  you  are.  You  are  simply 
the  idol  of  her  heart,  which  is  a  different  proposition 
altogether. 

During  the  whole  of  the  next  three  days  Cutmore 
had  a  vague  feeling  of  unnatural  calm  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  Betty.  She  was  gentle,  considerate,  but 
not  so  impulsive.  He  did  his  best  and  could  not 
surprise  her  in  any  sort  of  gay  appreciation  of  some- 
thing wise  or  brilliant  he  said,  which  before  this 
time  had  been  exceedingly  easy  to  do.  She  had 
been  the  most  sympathetic  audience  to  him  for 
nearly  three  months.  He  could  not  tell  whether  he 
was  diminished  or  if  Betty  had  quietly  risen  above 
par  in  her  own  estimation.  He  experienced  the 
queer  sensation  of  having  been  audited  privately  by 
his  wife  and  found  in  arrears  somewhere.  But  as  he 
was  a  man  with  a  profound  sense  of  his  own  virtues 
he  could  not  imagine  where  she  had  made  the  mis- 
take in  her  calculations.  It  occurred  in  the  subtrac- 
tion, of  course,  but  what  had  she  subtracted?  All 
this  was  not  clearly  defined  in  his  mind. 

You  may  say  that  he  was  merely  in  a  state  of 
premonition  toward  Betty,  while  her  own  attitude 
toward  him  was  one  of  cool,  calm  certainty.  He 
missed  the  tender  margins  which  her  quick  imagina- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  19S 

tion  had  afforded  him.  He  was  far  from  suspecting 
that  she  was  girding  herself  up  for  a  scene  and  a 
battle  with  him,  and  that  she  was  pale  with  an- 
guished courage. 

He  had  arranged  to  go  duck-shooting  with  Puckle 
on  Wednesday  afternoon.  They  would  return  in 
time  for  late  dinner.  Meanwhile  he  must  clean  his 
gun.  Did  Betty  know  what  she  had  done  with  it 
when  she  overhauled  the  house  in  August? 

"It  is  in  the  attic;  I  know  exactly  where  it  is," 
she  said,  starting  for  the  stairs. 

He  caught  her  by  the  arm  as  she  passed  him, 
swung  her  around. 

"You  are  pale  at  the  very  idea  of  carrying  even 
a  dead  gun,  Betty!"  he  laughed.  "I'll  go  for  it 
myself." 

She  watched  him  ascend  the  stairs;  she  heard 
him  cross  the  landing  above  and  start  up  the  attic 
staircase.  She  stood  with  bowed  head,  one  hand 
on  either  side  of  her  face.  Then  she  fell  on  her 
knees  before  the  parlor  fire.  She  had  time  for  a 
brief  prayer  before  it  happened.  "Oh,  her  Heav- 
enly Father,  guide  and  protect  her  from  Windy's 
wrath."  It  was  an  open-eyed  prayer,  because  she 
must  keep  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  door  through  which 
a  terrible  husband  might  come  at  any  moment. 

She  remained  thus  upon  her  knees,  listening, 
rigid;  minutes  passed  like  hours  in  this  suspense. 
Not  a  sound  came  from  above.  Then  she  heard  his 


200  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

heels  striking  on  the  attic  floor,  his  feet  racing  down 
the  stairs.  She  stood  up,  as  one  must  to  receive  his 
sentence,  however  terrible. 

The  next  moment  he  shot  into  the  room. 

"Betty,  we  have  been  robbed!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  regarded  him  in  silence. 

"The  attic  is  practically  empty!"  he  cried. 

She  laid  one  hand  on  her  breast  in  reply. 

"My  great-grandmother's  furniture,  all  of  it! — 
that  tester-bed! — is  gone!" 

She  pressed  the  other  hand  to  her  breast. 

"The  old  secretary  with  the  mullioned  glass 
doors!" 

Her  lips  parted.    The  pupils  of  her  eyes  dilated. 

"The  Chippendale  table  and  my  great-grand- 
mother's melodeon.  They  were  priceless!" 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  swayed  gently  backward. 

"Betty !"  he  cried,  springing  to  her  side  and  clasp- 
ing her  in  his  arms. 

He  bore  her  to  the  sofa,  rushed  into  the  hall,  and 
yelled  for  Marie.  Her  mistress  had  fainted.  Bring 
something  quick! 

Marie  screeched  as  she  ran  for  the  camphor,  ice- 
water,  and  a  towel. 

Cutmore  applied  these  restoratives.  He  had  for- 
gotten the  loss  of  the  attic  heirlooms  when  Betty's 
eyelids  quivered  and  two  tears  marked  them  like 
pearls  in  the  pale  firelight.  He  kissed  these  tears; 
the  lids  lifted,  and  for  one  brief  moment  he  saw 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  201 

the  blue  anguish  of  her  gaze.  Then  she  closed  them 
again. 

"Windy,"  she  said  faintly.  "You  did  not  men- 
tion the  silver  candelabra.  They  are  gone  too!" 

"Betty,  darling,  forget  it.  I  was  a  brute  to  startle 
you  so.  What  are  a  few  sticks  of  old  furniture*? 
Junk!" 

" — And  they  brought  only  fifty  dollars,"  she 
whispered. 

"Never  mind  that  old  thing,"  he  entreated,  not 
really  understanding  what  she  said. 

"I  didn't  notice  whether  it  was  up  there  or  not," 
he  went  on  soothingly.  "But  you  would  never  have 
used  it  anyway." 

"That  was  what  I  thought  when  I  sold  it — and 
the  other  things,"  she  answered,  speaking  distinctly 
now,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his. 

"I  had  no  idea  they  were — priceless,"  she  quav- 
ered. 

He  thought  for  a  moment  she  must  be  delirious. 
Then  he  perceived  that  she  was  perfectly  sensible. 

"You — sold  them!"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured  with  trembling  lips. 

"What  for?' 

"To  pay  your  debts,"  she  answered. 

"My  debts!"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  who  dared  to 
meddle  with  his  dear  debts. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  completely  restored. 

"There  were  twenty-eight  bills  sent  here  the  first 


202  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

of  this  month,  and  during  the  next  two  weeks 
twenty-six  collectors  called  here  for  money  due 
them,"  she  went  on,  sitting  up  and  tucking  back  her 
forelock,  but  without  looking  at  her  husband. 

"What  on  earth  possessed  you,  Betty*?  Why 
didn't  you  turn  the  darn  things  over  to  me*?"  he  ex- 
claimed indignantly. 

"Some  of  them  were  three  years  old.  The  col- 
lectors said  they  had  been  sent  to  you  regularly." 

"Well,  what  if  they  had1?"  he  wanted  to  know. 

"They  should  have  been  paid.  So  I  have  paid 
them,"  she  announced. 

"How4?"  he  demanded.  He  was  very  angry,  but 
she  was  still  very  weak,  though  she  looked  stern  and 
strong  enough  now,  sitting  primly  remote  from  him 
on  the  sofa. 

"With  the  furniture — the  melodeon,  the  tester- 
bed,  the  secretary — and  many  other  things  that  I 
found  up  there !"  she  answered. 

After  this  nothing  was  said  for  a  time  that  seemed 
like  eternity  to  these  two  fallen  creatures.  Then 
Betty  began  again,  speaking  calmly  as  one  does 
when  all  is  lost  save  honor. 

She  said  the  things  were  already  on  their  way  to 
the  Eastern  markets.  The  understanding  was  that 
they  were  not  to  be  sold  in  Millidge.  She  did  not 
know  even  if  the  sales  she  had  made  were  legal,  but 
one  thing  she  did  know,  she  was  his  legal  wife,  and 
in  the  marriage  ceremony  he  had  distinctly  endowed 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  203 

her  with  all  his  worldly  goods..  So  she  had  dis- 
posed of  enough  of  these  goods  to  pay  his  debts. 
She  thought  she  was  well  within  her  rights.  If 
there  were  any  more  debts,  there  were  other  things 
they  would  spare — a  lot  of  old  silver,  never  used. 

Having  said  all  this,  she  turned  her  head  and 
looked  at  Windy.  He  was  staring  moodily  at  his 
own  feet,  as  low  as  that.  This  air  of  dejection 
moved  her  to  contrition. 

She  slid  along  the  sofa  until  she  touched  him. 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Windy,  dear,"  mending  her  voice  with  all  the 
tones  of  tenderness,  "you  are  the  very  soul  of  honor. 
You  have  the  instinct  of  every  virtue.  You  are 
gifted  with  goodness.  You  are  so  dear  to  love  that 
my  heart  sings  to  you  perpetually.  But  a  man 
may  be  a  gifted  artist  and  never  learn  how  to  paint 
a  picture.  He  may  be  a  great  musician  and  never 
learn  to  play.  You  have  to  practice  it,  I  think, 
honor,  as  well  as  any  other  gift." 

"But  Betty,  this  is  awful,"  he  groaned.  "I  can 
not  bear  it,  what  you  mean  by  what  you  have  done." 

"It  means  that  I  believe  in  you,  dear,"  she  said. 

"Exactly  the  opposite!"  he  answered  bitterly. 

They  discussed  this  point.  Betty  made  some 
headway  by  making  much  love  to  him. 

"You  see,  Windy,"  she  said,  beginning  to  laugh, 
"at  home  we  have  always  practiced  economy.  We 


204  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

must  have  been  doing  that  a  thousand  years!  And 
you,  your  people,  they  practiced  grandeurs,  didn't 
they?  Well,  it  is  very  expensive.  You  have  told 
me  how  magnificently  your  father  paid  his  friends' 
debts  when  they  failed,  after  he  had  indorsed  their 
notes.  That  was  very  fine,  but  it  left  his  own  son 
a  poor  man,  and  not  properly  trained  to  the  virtues 
of  poverty. 

"I  was  thinking  it  might  be  a  good  thing  if  you 
would  appoint  me  your  receiver  for  a  year,  Windy," 
she  suggested. 

"My  receiver*?  What  do  you  mean4?"  he  wanted 
to  know. 

"A  receiver  is  one  who  takes  charge  of  a  busi- 
ness, isn't  he1? — stocks,  funds,  everything — and  ad- 
ministers it  according  to  law  and  common  sense! 
Well,  you  are  my  business,  dear,  the  only  occupa- 
tion I  shall  have  so  long  as  we  both  do  live.  Just 
suppose  then  that  you  turn  over  your  funds  to  me, 
except  your  daily  incidental  expenses,  and  I  should 
administer  it  and  save  the  rest." 

Well,  he  did  not  know  about  that.  Did  she 
comprehend  that  he  handled  large  sums  of  money 
constantly,  that  he  settled  and  administered  es- 
tates'? That  he  already  had  considerable  reputa- 
tion in  closing  up  bankrupt  businesses1? 

She  was  sure  of  all  that.  But  this  was  differ- 
ent, and  it  was  all  the  more  reason  why  he  should 
have  someone  who  could  give  her  whole  time  to 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  205 

his   estate,    which    would   naturally   be   neglected 
under  these  circumstances. 

Marie  came  to  announce  dinner  at  this  moment, 
and  it  was  a  very  gay  dinner.  Cutmore  realized 
that  he  did  feel  a  sense  of  relief  from  those  darned 
bills.  He  supposed  that  subconsciously  they  had 
long  been  a  burden  to  him.  After  all,  Betty  was 
a  game  little  sport.  Let  her  manage  the  family 
finances  for  a  while.  He  was  sure  she  would  soon 
weary  of  the  job.  He  cared  nothing  for  money;  if 
she  did,  let  her  have  it. 

He  went  duck-shooting  with  Puckle  the  next 
afternoon.  When  they  returned  for  dinner  with 
a  string  of  ducks,  Betty  had  prepared  to  celebrate 
something.  The  table  was  laid  with  grandeur. 
The  oldest,  thinnest  silver  glistened  there.  The 
finest  china,  and  in  the  center  of  the  table  an  old 
decanter  with  a  thrifty  measure  of  wine  in  it.  Cut- 
more  whooped  and  called  Puckle  to  witness  this 
prospect  of  conviviality.  For  the  mildest  intoxi- 
cants were  now  above  price  in  Millidge  and  even 
more  temptingly  without  the  sanction  of  the  law. 

When  Betty  whisked  in  from  the  kitchen  to  see 
what  was  going  on  she  found  Windy  holding  this 
decanter  between  him  and  the  light,  and  both  men 
were  speculating  as  to  the  number  of  glasses  which 
might  be  filled  and  refilled  from  it. 

She  shooed  them  out,  spreading  her  skirts  gaily 
and  driving  them  through  the  door.  They  must 


206  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

go  up-stairs  and  at  least  brush  up  and  pick  the 
Spanish  needles  from  their  clothes.  The  ducks 
were  still  to  be  roasted,  and  by  the  cook-book  that 
required  forty-five  minutes.  Therefore  it  would 
be  forty-five  minutes  before  they  could  taste  that 
wine. 

They  were  standing  before  the  fire  in  the  parlor, 
this  much  later,  like  two  long-legged  birds,  still  in 
their  hunting-clothes,  because  Puckle  could  not 
change  his.  Cutmore  was  distinctly  up  in  his  mind. 
He  was  giving  his  ideas  on  personal  integrity,  of 
all  subjects.  They  were  sterner  than  Puckle  had 
good  reasons  to  suppose  they  were. 

Marie  sailed  into  the  dining-room  with  a  smok- 
ing tureen  of  soup.  Betty  flew  out  and  up  the  hall 
to  announce  dinner. 

Just  before  she  reached  the  parlor  door  she 
halted,  and  listened. 

Every  wife  has  the  right  to  eavesdrop  her  hus- 
band. It  is  one  of  her  unwritten  laws  that  she  can 
and  will  do  that. 

"He  may  not  be  aware  of  it,"  Windy  was  saying, 
"but  debts  cower  a  man.  Thank  Heavens,  I  don't 
owe  a  dollar  in  the  world!"  her  husband  added  in 
the  proud  tones  of  one  who  always  had  paid  his 
debts. 

Your  husband  will  do  that  every  time,  appro- 
priate your  virtues  and  vaunt  them  for  his  own. 
He  really  believes  that  they  are  his,  when  they  are 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  207 

only  his  by  marriage.  This  was  what  the  famous 
and  probably  insufferable  husband  in  the  last  chap- 
ter of  Proverbs  was  doing  when  he  praised  his  wife's 
virtues  "within  the  gates."  He  was  taking  credit 
there  before  his  cronies  for  having  made  her  such 
an  industrious  and  frugal  woman.  And  no  one  has 
ever  yet  heard  of  a  good  wife  who  exposes  this 
natural  thievishness  common  to  husbands. 

Betty  was  happy  to  hear  these  noble  sentiments 
from  her  Windy.  It  showed  that  the  yeast  of  honor 
was  working  in  him. 

She  did  not  notice  the  look  of  speechless  amaze- 
ment with  which  Puckle  was  regarding  him  when 
she  appeared  in  the  doorway  to  announce  dinner. 

What  he  thought  was  that  if  Cutmore  had  ever 
voluntarily  paid  his  bills  there  was  moral  magic 
behind  the  performance.  And  Betty  was  gifted 
with  every  kind  of  the  best  brands  of  magic ! 

Six  months  had  passed  since  Cutmore  had  be- 
come a  partner  in  the  law  firm  of  Puckle  &  Cut- 
more.  And  nothing  violent  had  happened,  since 
his  marriage. 

Puckle  began  to  experience  a  comfortable  assur- 
ance in  this  young  man's  future.  He  was  doing 
exceedingly  well  at  the  law.  He  had  settled  down. 
Puckle  gave  Betty  all  the  credit  for  this  develop- 
ment of  steadiness  in  her  husband.  She  had  en- 


208  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

compassed  him  about  with  her  radiant  faith  and 
saved  him. 

He  wished  some  woman  like  Betty  could  also 
have  saved  him  with  the  salvation  of  her  love.  He 
put  it  that  way,  although  he  knew  there  was  only 
one  woman  like  Betty  in  the  world.  And  he  felt 
the  need  of  being  saved,  as  every  man  does  who  is 
not  married  and  finds  himself  drifting  down  the 
years  to  his  bachelor  dust.  Still,  he  was  no  longer 
positively  unhappy.  He  saw  Betty  frequently, 
under  the  happiest  conditions. 

During  this  month  of  October  a  post  of  the 
American  Legion  was  organized  in  Millidge.  He 
was  gratified  to  learn  that  Cutmore  had  joined  this 
organization.  He  inferred  that  Betty  had  ma- 
neuvered Cutmore  into  taking  this  step,  because  he 
had  told  Puckle  that  he  was  done  with  anything 
remotely  connected  with  military  life. 

This  was  exactly  what  had  happened.  There 
was  to  be  a  mass-meeting  in  Millidge  one  night, 
called  for  the  purpose  of  forming  this  Legion. 

When  Cutmore  came  home  that  afternoon  he 
found  his  army  uniform  pressed  and  laid  out  in 
his  dressing-room. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Betty?"  he  called. 

"The  veterans  are  expected  to  wear  their  uni- 
forms to-night!"  she  said,  coming  to  the  door  of 
her  room. 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  that  meeting,  and  I  cer- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  209 

tainly  shall  not  join  the  Legion!"  he  told  her,  not 
pleased  to  have  this  issue  sprung  on  him.  Of  course 
he  must  be  in  the  Legion,  she  said. 

Betty  knew  of  his  record  as  a  soldier.  She  was 
proud  of  the  wound-stripes  on  the  sleeve  of  his 
blouse.  But  she  did  not  know  the  tragedy  of  his 
experience.  She  had  never  heard  of  Hayden. 
Well,  this  was  why  he  wished  to  avoid  member- 
ship in  this  Legion.  He  was  sure  Hayden  was  the 
kind  of  man  who  would  infest  such  an  organiza- 
tion. He  had  already  seen  an  account  of  Hayden's 
activities  along  this  line  in  another  part  of  the 
State.  Soon  or  late  they  should  be  bound  to  meet 
if  he  went  into  the  thing.  And  he  could  not  trust 
himself  that  far.  He  had  Betty  to  consider  now. 
His  thoughts  went  back  to  Harpeth.  He  wondered 
what  had  become  of  this  wretched  victim  of  Hay- 
den's  cowardice.  He  had  heard  nothing  from  him 
since  they  were  together  when  Betty  was  in 
Culloden. 

She  was  standing  now  with  her  hands  behind  her 
and  her  back  to  the  wall  just  inside  the  dressing- 
room  door.  She  broke  off  in  the  midst  of  what  she 
was  saying  to  say  something  else. 

"Windy!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  are  not  listen- 
ing! You  must  join  the  Legion,"  she  went  on; 
"think  of  your  children,  dear,  what  it  would  mean 


210  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

to  them  if  you  do  not.  They  will  want  to  know 
the  reason  why — as  I  do  now." 

Children!  He  had  never  thought  definitely  on 
this  subject. 

He  regarded  Betty  as  if  she  had  been  a  phenome- 
non. 

"Well,  we  will  have  children,  some  time,  won't 
we4?"  she  retorted. 

"Betty!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  came  to  him  and  laid  her  head  on  his  breast. 
He  enfolded  her  in  his  arms.  It  was  not  a  mo- 
ment to  be  interpreted.  But  the  collective  way  she 
spoke  of  their  family  was  very  wonderful,  he 
thought. 

She  was  that  kind  of  wife,  unscrupulous  in  tak- 
ing any  mortgage  she  could  get  on  his  love  and 
obedience.  Most  women  are.  It  is  one  of  the  ways 
they  have  of  controlling  the  situation. 

After  more  talk,  he  put  on  the  uniform.  He 
was  still  in  the  bridegroom  state  when  making  con- 
cessions to  a  young  and  devoted  wife  is  compara- 
tively easy. 

He  admitted  to  himself  that  "children"  made  a 
difference.  If  a  man  should  become  the  father  of 
inquisitors  he  must  look  to  his  record.  Therefore 
he  would  join  the  Legion,  and  Hayden  be  damned! 

He  informed  Puckle  the  next  morning  of  what 
he  had  done.  Puckle  was  gratified.  He  said  that 
in  the  course  of  a  very  few  years  any  veteran  of  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  211 

Great  War  who  did  not  belong  to  some  post  in  this 
Legion  would  find  himself  in  an  embarrassing  situ- 
ation. It  would  automatically  convey  a  reflection 
on  his  war  record.  The  American  Legion  in  five 
years  would  control  the  political  destinies  of  this 
country.  It  would  be  a  tremendous  leaven,  he 
thought,  against  the  radical  class,  and  so  on.  Noth- 
ing about  children,  however,  and  the  views  they 
might  take  of  delinquent  parents.  But  he  did  no- 
tice that  Cutmore  seemed  strangely  augmented.  He 
supposed  this  was  due  to  a  revival  of  the  swollen 
military  sense  peculiar  to  all  soldiers  who  had 
paraded,  or  were  about  to,  before  a  civilian  popu- 
lation. Poor  man !  He  knew  nothing  of  the  mul- 
tiple effect  the  idea  of  children  may  produce  on  a 
young  and  potential  father. 

Toward  the  end  of  November  Cutmore  was  out 
of  the  office  for  ten  days.  He  had  an  attack  of 
what  was  called  "influenza"  in  1918,  and  what  had 
now  been  demoted  to  the  former  term  of  plain,  old- 
fashioned  grippe.  He  came  back  to  his  desk  too 
soon.  Puckle  told  him  so,  having  noticed  that 
Cutmore  showed  a  disposition  to  flare  up  on  the 
slightest  provocation.  He  was  anxious,  doubly  so, 
in  view  of  Cutmore's  past  performances.  This 
might  be  the  after-effects  of  his  illness.  But  it 
might  be  a  revival  of  the  natural  Satan  in  Cut- 
more.  Some  men  can  keep  to  the  order  of  things 
just  so  long.  Then  something,  anything,  happens 


212  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

and  they  fly  the  track.  He  hoped  for  Betty's  sake 
Cutmore  would  not  blow  up.  He  was  always  hop- 
ing something  for  Betty's  sake. 

There  is  no  logic  in  life,  not  while  you  are  living 
it.  The  thing  only  appears  to  be  logical  in  your 
biography,  if  you  are  of  sufficient  importance  to 
earn  a  biography,  because  the  writer  of  it  omits 
those  trivial  incidents  which  changed  your  course 
a  hundred  times  and  caused  you  to  meet  issues  and 
accomplish  deeds  that  you  had  no  idea  of  meeting 
or  accomplishing  when  you  started.  He  leaves  this 
little  handle  of  destiny  out  that  cranked  you  up 
and  merely  tells  the  tale. 

If  Cutmore  had  not  joined  the  American  Legion, 
if  he  had  had  grippe  in  January  of  1920,  say,  in- 
stead of  in  November  of  1919,  if  William  Crom- 
bie's  new  limousine  had  not  been  stolen  in  Decem- 
ber following  of  this  same  year,  this  story  would 
have  had  a  different  ending. 


PART  THREE 

CHAPTER  XI 

Women  are  by  nature  lyrical.  They  may  become 
elegiac,  plaintive,  under  oppression,  but  they  never 
attain  the  great  emotional  stride  that  makes  an 
epic.  And  not  one  of  them  ever  wins  from  experi- 
ence, however  terrible,  the  mournful,  rolling,  drum- 
beating  rhythm  of  tragedy.  Some  man  must  al- 
ways furnish  the  lines  spoken  by  a  tragedienne  from 
Lady  Macbeth  down.  They  can  endure  desola- 
tion, but  they  can  not  speak  the  Promethean  tongue. 
They  have  a  blissfully  diminishing  quality  of  the 
mind  which  corresponds  to  the  tintinnabulating 
treble  of  the  feminine  voice,  so  that  in  their  very 
thoughts  they  reduce  their  sorrows  with  smaller 
terms,  miss  the  awful  dignity  and  the  sonorous 
tones  of  despair.  If  the  average  man  could  endure 
the  vicissitudes  of  the  average  woman's  life  we 
should  have  ten  thousand  volumes  a  year  of  Prome- 
thean poetry,  and  Sisyphus  would  become  a  national 
hero.  To  survive  the  tragedy  of  living  one  must 
not  have  a  too  lofty  imagination.  This  is  how 
women  get  away  with  it.  Their  very  existence  is 

tragic,   but  by  the  grace  of  God  their  nature  is 

213 


214  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

lyrical,  not  informed  with  the  deeper  sense  of 
tragedy,  never  able  to  hold  the  note  long  enough, 
always  breaking  into  hysterics  before  they  reach  the 
grand,  dirgeful  pitch. 

Thus  it  happens  that  every  woman  is  born  with 
a  gift  for  being  a  bride.  She  has  a  pretty  talent 
for  the  light  histrionics  of  love.  And  she  could 
play  that  role  until  her  hair  turned  gray  and  her 
face  withered  like  a  dead  and  dried  rose  but  for 
the  fact  that  no  man  can  long  bear  the  tender  per- 
fections of  being  a  bridegroom  to  just  one  and  the 
same  woman.  And  no  woman  living  can  be  a  bride 
to  a  mere  husband. 

Windham  Cutmore  was  drifting  into  this  normal 
prose  state  of  a  man  who  finds  himself  cast  for  the 
perpetual  role  of  husband,  a  condition  no  bride- 
groom realizes  until  he  has  played  out  as  a  bride- 
groom. He  was  now  capable  of  thrusting  his  chair 
back  from  the  table  without  tasting  his  food.  He 
no  longer  concealed  his  perversities  as  an  eating 
animal.  He  frequently  complained  that  the  house 
was  too  hot,  that  it  was  too  cold. 

One  evening  when  Betty  lifted  her  hand  as  usual 
to  pin  back  her  vagrant  forelock  he  watched  her 
frowning.  The  repetition  of  this  pretty  perform- 
ance had  got  on  his  nerves. 

"Why  don't  you  cut  that  cow-licked  lock  off  and 
have  done  with  it*?"  he  exclaimed. 

She  was  shocked.     She  considered  several  things 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  215 

that  she  might  say  in  reply  to  this  brutal  sugges- 
tion. Then  she  decided  to  make  no  reply.  She 
had  a  hunch  that  it  was  wiser  not  to  cross  swords 
with  a  husband  like  Windy.  Besides,  if  you  never 
quarrel  with  your  husband  you  prove  your  su- 
periority. 

But  from  this  day  he  never  saw  that  lock  of  hair 
which  had  been  the  golden  semaphore  of  Betty's 
countenance  since  he  had  first  known  her.  He 
missed  it,  and  a  certain  waywardness  in  Betty  her- 
self which  seemed  to  have  gone  with  it. 

When  a  man  becomes  a  mere  husband  you  know 
it  by  the  fact  that  he  begins  at  once  to  shrive  his 
bride  of  those  manners  and  trifles  which  first  en- 
deared her  to  him.  He  demands  the  prose  of  her, 
but  he  never  ceases  to  miss  the  poetry  of  her  which 
he  has  suppressed,  and  which  he  sometimes  seeks 
in  another  woman. 

Betty  did  not  understand  the  wringing  process 
through  which  their  happiness  was  passing.  She 
attributed  Cutmore's  sharpened  temper  to  his  re- 
cent illness.  He  was  not  quite  himself,  she  thought. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  just  now  becoming  him- 
self again.  He  was  reacting  as  usual  from  the 
novelty  of  having  a  dear,  young,  and  devoted  wife. 
He  was  returning  to  his  own  consciousness,  sepa- 
rate and  distinct.  Most  men  do  that.  It  is  the 
time  when  their  brides  begin  to  weep  without  being 
able  to  tell  why  they  are  so  sad.  Betty  escaped  this 


216  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

tearful  period  only  because  she  was  a  financier  in 
love. 

Other  circumstances  at  this  time  distracted  her 
attention  and  kept  her  balanced.  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Marshall  came  up  from  Culloden  on  a  visit.  It 
was  a  season  of  quiet  but  rapturous  happiness  for 
Betty,  because  Windy  had  been  at  his  eighteenth- 
century  best.  His  display  of  decorous  and  formal 
affection  for  her  parents  filled  her  with  prideful 
assurance.  Let  Aunt  Theodosia  rage  now  and 
imagine  vain  things.  Her  dear  people  would  know 
the  quality  of  man  Windy  was! 

Mrs.  Marshall  was  a  placid,  dark  little  woman 
whose  dignity  was  softened  and  scriptural.  She 
enhanced  Betty  hi  the  eyes  of  certain  Millidge 
ladies  who  met  her  at  the  informal  tea-party  which 
Betty  gave  in  her  honor.  Such  dim,  sweet  elegance ! 
White  niching  in  the  neck  and  sleeves  of  her  frock; 
hair  crimped !  "Little  Mrs.  Cutmore  has  been  wiser 
in  the  choice  of  her  mother  than  in  the  husband  she 
has  chosen!"  one  woman  said  to  another  as  they 
came  out  from  this  party. 

If  Mrs.  Marshall  had  any  misgivings  about  her 
son-in-law,  she  concealed  them — with  that  astute- 
ness which  is  frequently  the  unsuspected  charac- 
teristic of  apparently  simple  folk.  But  on  the  first 
night  after  they  returned  to  Culloden  she  remained 
so  long  on  her  knees  in  prayer  beside  their  mutual 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  217 

bed  that  the  Colonel  immediately  asked  her  when 
she  finished  what  she  thought  of  Betty's  husband. 
He  had  observed  during  their  married  life  that 
Mrs.  Marshall's  prayers  were  normally  brief  at 
night  unless  her  maternal  anxiety  was  excited  for 
some  reason. 

"He  is  very  fond  of  Betty,"  she  answered  eva- 
sively as  she  slipped  in  between  the  sheets  and  drew 
the  covers  up. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  the  Colonel  replied,  taking  the 
last  whiff  from  his  cigar  standing  on  the  rug  be- 
fore the  fire,  "but  what  do  you  think  of  him?" 

Mrs.  Marshall  stared  at  the  ceiling.  Her  face, 
framed  in  the  dark  hair  with  locks  of  gray  on  the 
temples,  looked  strangely  like  an  older  image  of 
Betty's  face,  paler,  sweetened  with  faint  lines  and 
wrinkles,  but  the  same  blue  eyes. 

"I  think,"  she  said  after  a  silence  that  made  the 
Colonel  shift  uneasily,  "that  he  is  capable  of  any- 
thing." 

"My  dear!"  he  protested. 

"Anything,  good  or  evil,"  she  repeated. 

"That  may  be  said  of  every  man,"  he  said. 

"Potentially,  yes,"  she  answered  slowly,  "but 
Windham  will  go  the  limit.  Most  men  don't, 
either  way.  He  is  not  so  much  the  husband  Betty 
has  taken  as  the  risk  she  has  taken." 


218  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"Puckle  likes  him,"  the  Colonel  insisted.  "He 
thinks  Windham  has  a  brilliant  future." 

"Mr.  Puckle  likes  Betty.  He  only  likes  Wind- 
ham  because  she  requires  that  of  him.  And  he  will 
think  any  kind  of  future  for  him  to  oblige  Betty!" 
his  wife  returned. 

There  is  something  queer  about  the  mother-in- 
law.  The  whole  world  knows  it  and  frequently  re- 
fers to  her  in  terms  of  defeat.  She  may  be  an  ordi- 
nary woman  with  no  marked  gift  for  detecting  you, 
but  the  moment  her  daughter  marries  you  her  na- 
ture changes.  She  becomes  psychic.  And  it  is  not 
her  nature  to  love  a  son-in-law,  but  to  know  him. 

Meanwhile  Colonel  Marshall  had  completely 
changed  in  his  attitude  toward  Cutmore.  He  con- 
ceived a  voluntary  father's  patronage  for  this 
promising  young  man.  He  made  a  point  of  com- 
ing to  Millidge  to  see  him  and  to  be  seen  with  him. 
He  imagined  that  his  implied  approval  would  be 
of  benefit  to  Cutmore. 

What  with  this  happy  welding  of  family  ties  and 
her  other  social  duties  Betty  had  no  time  to  lan- 
guish over  her  own  condition  or  grieve  over  changes 
so  subtle  in  her  husband  that  they  appeared  only 
momentarily.  In  the  main  he  was  dear  Windy  still, 
only  sterner  at  times. 

The  Cutmores  had  just  given  their  first  formal 
dinner-party.  It  was  all  over  and  the  guests  gone 
at  eleven  o'clock.  The  parlor  had  a  disheveled  look 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

as  if  much  merriment  had  just  passed  out  of  itj 
ing  the  chairs  still  drawn  together  in  groups, 
ing  cranksided,  shoved  together,  looking  a  little 
tipsy  as  chairs  always  do  look  after  people  who 
laugh  and  are  friendly  have  been  sitting  in  them. 
Sheets  of  music  lay  scattered  on  the  piano.  Some- 
body had  left  a  fan,  spread  where  it  had  fallen  on 
the  floor,  like  feathers  from  a  bird's  wing.  The 
fire  in  the  hearth  was  now  a  heap  of  red  coals  with 
a  frost  of  fine  white  ashes  on  them.  Cutmore  sat 
in  a  deep  chair  before  it,  Betty  on  a  low  stool  beside 
him,  one  arm  on  his  knee,  her  head  resting  upon  it. 

"Every  one  seemed  to  enjoy  it,  didn't  they, 
Windy*?"  she  said  with  a  happy  sigh. 

"Of  course  they  did,"  he  assured  her. 

"The  Turners  are  nice  people,"  sleepily. 

"Very  substantial,  yes,"  he  agreed. 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  Tovey  has  proposed  to  Mar- 
garet yet1?" 

"Not  if  he  knows  a  lime-twig  as  well  as  I  think 
he  does,"  he  answered.  "Margaret  Miller  is  too 
obvious.  No  sport  to  winning  a  girl  like  that." 

"Sarah  and  I  are  so  anxious  to  make  that  match." 

"Well,  you  show  it!  Tovey  looks  like  a  rabbit 
about  to  be  mesmerized." 

"He  looks  that  way  anyhow,"  she  replied,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Sarah  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  the  way  she  kicks 
that  fellow  Towne  around  before  people." 


220  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"She  can't  forgive  him,"  Betty  explained. 

"Forgive  him  what?  Everybody  says  she  will 
marry  him!" 

"That,"  she  murmured  darkly,  "she  resents  hav- 
ing to  marry  him." 

"But  she  doesn't  have  to,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  does,  in  a  way.  He  is  the  only 
man  who  ever  proposed  to  Sarah.  Think  of  marry- 
ing the  only  man  you  could  possibly  marry.  It  is 
awful.  She  will  never  forgive  him!" 

Cutmore  let  out  a  peal  of  laughter  that  aroused 
Betty.  She  sat  up  and  regarded  him  soberly. 

"Well,  suppose  I  had  been  the  only  girl  you 
could  have  married,  don't  you  see  there  would  have 
been  no — no  free  will  in  the  matter  at  all.  You 
would  just  have  had  to  do  it.  And  you  would — 
well,  you  would  have  resented  me.  Love  is  eclectic, 
or,  not  love." 

"I  suppose  I  should  feel  complimented  then  be- 
cause you  had  other  lovers,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,  because  you  know  by  the  same  token 
that  you  were  chosen,  not  a  dire  necessity  as  poor 
Charlie  Towne  is  to  Sarah." 

They  went  on  in  this  strain  for  some  time,  then 
Betty  remarked  that  Mr.  Crombie  was  quite  crazy 
about  his  new  car. 

"He  should  be.  It  cost  a  small  fortune,"  Cut- 
more  answered. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  221 

"Windy,"  Betty  began  after  another  silence, 
"what  is  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Patten?" 

"Nothing  that  I  know  of;  why?" 

"Sarah  was  here  when  I  was  making  the  list  for 
this  dinner-party.  I  was  about  to  include  the  Pat- 
tens ;  she  said  no,  it  was  best  not  to  ask  them.  You 
know  they  have  been  very  nice  to  us." 

"You  ask  Mrs.  Patten,  Betty,  only  when  you 
ask  everybody,"  he  said. 

"But  why*?"  she  wanted  to  know. 

"No  particular  reason.  She  is  one  of  those  good 
women  whom  nobody  trusts.  She  looms  large  only 
when  there  is  a  drive  on  for  some  charitable  pur- 
pose. And  she  is  the  most  uncharitable  woman  in 
Millidge.  She  keeps  the  book  of  transgressions. 
She  knows  everybody's  faults,  and  tells  them.  The 
awful  thing  is  that  she  speaks  the  truth." 

"Windy,  do  you  know  a  Captain  Hay  den?" 
Betty  asked  suddenly. 

"No;  why?"  he  answered  after  a  pause  so  brief 
it  was  scarcely  perceptible. 

"Mrs.  Patten  said  something  dreadful  happened 
to  him  at  the  club.  She  said  you  knew  about  it. 
What  happened?" 

He  knew  absolutely  nothing  about  Hayden,  he 
answered  shortly.  Besides,  it  was  late  and  time 
honest  folk  were  in  bed. 

The  most  fearlessly  truthful  man  in  his  relations 


222  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

to  other  men  will  be  untruthful  to  his  wife.  This 
is  a  form  of  instinctive  cowardice  in  the  elder  sex 
which  has  not  received  the  attention  it  deserves. 
His  own  explanation  is  fallacious,  but  creditable  to 
his  kinder  nature,  that  his  wife  must  not  be 
frightened  or  disturbed  by  the  gross  and  frequently 
dangerous  incidents  of  his  strictly  masculine  exist- 
ence. And  he  will  insure  her  peace  of  mind  with 
this  mendacity  when  he  has  ceased  to  insure  her 
happiness  or  even  her  physical  comfort  in  any  other 
way.  The  truth  is  that  the  eyes  of  his  good  and 
faithful  wife  are  more  disconcerting  and  diminish- 
ing when  she  beholds  him  in  the  light  of  his  secret 
deeds  than  the  remote  omniscience  of  Almighty 
God,  whose  judgments  are  silent  and  indefinitely 
deferred. 

So  Cutmore  lied  to  Betty  about  that  affair  with 
Hayden,  because  it  was  none  of  Betty's  business, 
but,  strictly  speaking,  a  man's  business,  and  because 
Betty  must  not  be  alarmed  by  the  knowledge  that 
her  husband  had  earned  and  sustained  a  reputation 
for  being  an  exceedingly  dangerous  man.  If  he 
had  been  addicted  to  strong  drink,  or  if  he  had  been 
a  gambler,  he  would  have  denied  that  too,  with  the 
fervid  language  of  truth.  They  all  do  it.  Every 
husband,  for  some  Adam  reason,  feels  honor-bound 
to  keep  a  part  of  his  character  secret  from  his  wife. 
And  not  one  of  them  ever  succeeds.  From  this 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  223 

hour  the  name  of  Hayden  was  fixed  in  Betty's  mind 
by  a  strange  involuntary  connection  with  her  hus- 
band. She  thought  she  would  ask  Mr.  Puckle  about 
that  man  Hayden,  not  that  she  doubted  Windy's 
word,  of  course  not,  but  she  just  wanted  to  know 
what  the  word  "dreadful"  used  by  Mrs.  Patten 
concealed.  She  did,  when  Puckle  came  next  time 
to  dine  with  them. 

They  were  seated  before  the  fire  in  the  parlor 
waiting  for  Cutmore  to  come  down-stairs;  Puckle 
was  very  comfortable.  His  face  glowed  redly  from 
the  heat  of  the  fire.  And  he  was  watching  Betty, 
trying  honestly  to  think  of  her  in  general  terms,  such 
as  what  a  charming  hostess  she  was,  what  a  good 
housekeeper  she  was,  how  considerate  of  her  to 
always  make  him  so  welcome,  and — how  softly 
pretty  she  was  perched,  as  usual,  delicately  and 
primly  on  the  edge  of  her  chair  leaning  forward, 
hands  clasped  over  one  knee,  her  blue  eyes  match- 
ing the  flame  that  shot  up  in  violet  rays  between 
the  burning  logs,  and  silent.  Few  women,  he 
thought,  had  the  beneficent  repose  of  silence. 

Puckle  was  only  a  man,  not  even  a  husband.  He 
did  not  know,  therefore,  that  a  woman's  silence  is 
always  dangerously  potential,  that  she  invariably 
makes  up  for  it  with  a  punch  the  next  time  she 
speaks,  and  that  you,  if  you  are  present,  are  sure  to 
become  the  victim  of  this  cumulative  silence.  She 


224  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

is  only  taking  the  more  careful  aim  before  she  lets 
go  at  you. 

"Mr.  Puckle,  who  is  Captain  Hayden?'  Betty 
asked,  breaking  this  beneficent  silence. 

Puckle  received  the  shock  of  this  question  lean- 
ing far  back  in  his  chair.  When  it  passed  he  sat 
up  slowly,  perceiving  that  Betty's  eyes  were  upon 
him.  He  uncrossed  his  legs,  turned  his  head  side- 
wise,  bowed  it  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  searches 
his  memory  for  a  trifling  thing. 

"Hayden,  Hayden,"  he  repeated  in  a  musing 
voice.  "The  name  is  familiar.  Yes,  I  recall  him 
now,  never  knew  him  myself,  but  he  enlisted  from 
Millidge,  I  believe.  Probably  one  of  the  officers 
trained  here." 

He  caught  her  eye.  It  was  still  an  interrogative, 
unsatisfied  eye. 

"Windy  doesn't  know  Captain  Hayden,  either," 
she  said. 

This  was  news.  Puckle  felt  like  a  man  holding 
one  foot  up  in  the  dark,  not  sure  where  to  set  it 
down  for  the  next  step. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  to  know  about  him*?" 
he  asked,  smiling  at  her. 

She  refused  to  return  this  smile. 

"Did  anything  dreadful  ever  happen  to  Captain 
Hayden  at  the  Old  Hickory  Club?"  she  wanted  to 
know. 

"Bless  me,  Betty !    What  can  you  imagine  dread- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  225 

ful  that  could  happen  to  anybody  at  the  Old 
Hickory?  It's  as  solemn  and  respectable  as  a 
church,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  faintly  injured  air. 
He  added  that  he  was  one  of  the  governors  and  he 
surely  would  know  if  anything  out  of  the  way 
happened. 

"That  is  what  I  thought,  but  it  does  seem 
strange,"  she  answered. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Mrs.  Patten  told  me.  That  is,  she  didn't  tell 
me,  only  that  something  dreadful  had  happened  to 
Captain  Hayden  at  the  club.  She  said  Windy  must 
have  told  me.  I  said  no,  he  had  not.  Then  she 
looked  very  queer  and  said  in  that  case  she  was 
very  sorry  she  mentioned  it." 

"That  woman!"  Puckle  snorted. 

"I  asked  Windy,  but  he  said  he  knew  nothing 
about  it." 

"Well,  then,  of  course  there  is  nothing  to  know," 
he  assured  her. 

"There  is  something,"  she  insisted.  "And  Mrs. 
Patten  seemed  to  connect  whatever  it  was  with. 
Windy  and  this  Captain  Hayden.  That  is  why  I 
wanted  to  know  about  it." 

"Betty!" 

She  glanced  at  him  and  was  shocked  at  the  ma- 
lignancy of  this  good  man's  countenance.  His  brows 
bristled,  his  lips  snarled,  his  nose  spread  and  flat- 
tened. 


226  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"The  less  you  have  to  do  with  Mrs.  Patten  the 
better,  the  less  you  listen  to  her  the  wiser  you  will 
be.  She's  got  adder-blood  in  her.  She's  venomous. 
She's  been  the  poisoned  yeast  of  every  scandal  in 
this  town  for  ten  years.  She " 

"But  is  this  a  scandal?"  Betty  interrupted,  still 
keen  on  the  scent. 

"What?' 

"This  something  dreadful  that  happened  at  the 
club,"  she  answered,  harping  on  that. 

"Gossip!  Nothing  that  could  possibly  concern 
you!" 


"But  she  connected  Windy- 


At  this  moment  Cutmore  came  into  the  room, 
furbished  up  for  dinner,  and  for  some  reason  Betty 
did  not  finish  what  she  was  about  to  say. 

Puckle  was  flustered.  He  talked  so  much  more 
than  usual  that  Betty  kept  her  eye  on  him.  She 
thought  Mr.  Puckle  made  a  noise  like  sounding 
brass  and  tinkling  cymbals.  She  was  perfectly  cer- 
tain that  he  was  trying  to  create  a  diversion,  and 
she  was  very  suspicious.  Puckle  was  secretly  indig- 
nant. Why  in  thunderation  had  Cutmore  not  men- 
tioned to  his  wife  the  licking  he  had  given  Hay- 
den?  In  his  opinion  this  was  a  mistake,  making  a 
mountain  of  a  mole-hill.  He  might  know  she  would 
hear  of  the  whole  affair.  But  he  understood  Cut- 
more's  silence.  He  was  unwilling  to  reveal  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  227 

tragedy  of  his  experiences  in  France.  He  had  the 
reserve  of  a  decent  fighting  man  about  that.  No 
one  except  himself  knew  the  reason  for  Cutmore's 
assault  upon  Hayden.  He  hoped  that  fellow  would 
keep  out  of  Millidge.  Cutmore  was  a  man  who 
had  an  instinct  for  settling  personal  accounts  of 
this  kind. 


CHAPTER  XII 

What  may  have  been  a  sort  of  natural  providence 
in  the  beginning  can  become  a  destructive  element 
in  life.  Some  scientists,  with  that  peculiar  and 
unbridled  imagination  which  is  a  characteristic  of 
all  notable  scientists,  hold  that  man  might  have 
remained  indefinitely  in  his  original  brute  sim- 
plicity if  he  had  not  accidentally  discovered  the  de- 
lectable flavor  of  fermented  juices,  if  he  had  not 
taken  his  maize  in  the  form  of  a  sour  mass.  The 
effect  of  this  intoxicating  nourishment  was  to  ex- 
cite the  nervous  system,  which  in  time  changed  the 
whole  physical  organism  of  man,  multiplied  the 
brain-cells,  thereby  causing  a  functioning  of  the 
same  beyond  mere  instinctive  animal  action.  It 
also  produced  an  inebriate  self-consciousness  which 
exalted  man  emotionally,  causing  him  to  contin- 
ually stand  on  his  hind  legs  and  to  use  his  fore  legs 
for  the  purpose  of  gesturing.  What  followed  was 
a  matter  of  development.  From  the  lowest  forms- 
of  nightmare  superstitions  he  has  progressed  to  the 
present  stage  of  arts,  ideals,  civilizations,  and  as- 
sured immortality. 

But  whatever  may  be  said  of  the  inspirational 
effects  of  intoxicants  upon  the  development  of  man 

228 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  229 

it  has  now  been  moved  and  seconded  in  our  own 
most  enlightened  nation  that  a  dearth  of  intoxi- 
cants will  be  much  better  for  him.  Wherefore  we 
have  recently  acquired  national  prohibition  in  this 
country,  not  as  a  fact  but  as  a  law,  because  you  can 
not  wean  a  nation  from  the  habit  of  twice  ten  thou- 
sand years  by  legislating  against  the  habit. 

The  present  effect  of  prohibition  has  been  to  close 
the  saloons  and  to  spray  the  whole  country  with 
the  forbidden  beverage. 

Millidge  had  long  been  known  as  a  town  of 
sober  intoxication.  The  decanter  was  still  a  house- 
hold institution  among  the  best  families.  Wine  was 
a  liquid  preparation  for  conversation  taken  at  every 
table  in  Millidge.  Housewives  of  the  grander  sort 
believed  in  the  noble  flavoring,  and  used  it.  It 
was  like  depriving  a  fine  old  community  of  its  finer 
sentiments  to  banish  its  liquors.  Not  that  those 
citizens  accustomed  to  their  toddies  did  without 
them.  It  was  that  honest  men  with  impeccable  rep- 
utations were  reduced  to  expedients  dark  and  de- 
vious to  get  the  stuff,  and  such  stuff!  A  set  of 
criminals  known  as  "bootleggers"  prospered  exceed- 
ingly there.  Mud-bespattered  "flivvers"  shot  in 
and  out  of  Millidge  at  all  hours.  Old  and  formerly 
honorable  cars  went  into  the  business  when  they 
were  purchased  from  second-hand  dealers.  Never 
had  so  many  well-intentioned  and  highly  connected 
cars  been  stolen  and  spirited  away  also  to  be  used 


230  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

in  this  traffic.  The  Millidge  Ledger  carried  half  a 
column  of  advertisements  for  stolen  cars  offering  re- 
wards for  "evidence  to  convict." 

But  until  the  third  day  of  December  none  of  the 
prominent  cars  in  Millidge  had  been  taken.  Crom- 
bie's  contention  was  that  a  six-thousand-dollar  auto- 
mobile was  too  expensive  and  heavy  to  be  used 
advantageously  in  the  moonshine  trade  and  that 
Millidge  had  no  professional  thieves  of  the  other 
class. 

On  this  day  he  started  out  in  his  precious  car  for 
his  annual  hunt.  He  was  accompanied  by  Colonel 
Turner,  who  occupied  the  seat  beside  him;  Towne 
and  Tovey,  who  sat  behind;  two  bird-dogs,  and  a 
substantial  roll  of  sandwiches  bestowed  in  the 
hammock-rack  of  the  car  above  the  noses  of  the 
dogs.  They  had  everything  but  the  best  thing.  It 
developed  at  the  last  moment  that  no  one  could 
produce  the  essential  flask.  Five  miles  beyond  Mil- 
lidge they  sighted  a  covered  wagon  coming  slowly 
toward  them. 

"That  looks  promising!"  Turner  said,  who  was 
now  at  the  toddy  age. 

Towne  stood  up,  bent  forward,  and  squinted  over 
their  shoulders  through  the  wind-shield  at  this 
wagon. 

"Depends  upon  whether  there  is  a  gray  mule  tied 
behind,"  he -announced  judiciously. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  231 

This  wagon  was  well  known  on  the  country 
roads  around  Millidge,  although  it  was  never  seen 
in  the  town.  It  was  drawn  by  two  raw-boned  sorrel 
mules.  But  the  driver  changed  identity  frequently. 
Sometimes  he  was  a  leather-faced  mountaineer  with 
chin-whiskers,  sometimes  he  was  a  youth  with  only 
a  colorless  down  on  his  lip.  Frequently  it  was  a 
fat  elderly  woman  with  a  snuff-stick  in  her  mouth. 
But  the  sheet  of  the  wagon  was  always  rolled  up 
behind,  where  a  crate  showed.  This  crate  carried 
anything  from  pigs  to  turkeys.  Provender  for  the 
team  was  piled  on  top  of  it.  There  was  a  roll  of 
bedding  in  front  of  it,  and  the  dingy  mess  of  a 
camping  outfit,  including  provisions  and  enough 
apples  to  smell.  If  the  wagon  was  proceeding  in 
the  direction  of  Millidge  there  was  always  an  old 
gray  mule  tied  behind  and  apparently  following 
unwillingly.  A  sign  to  the  initiated  that  a  full 
line  was  inside.  But  if  it  should  be  going  in  the 
opposite  direction  this  mule  was  hitched  in  front  to 
the  end  of  the  wagon-tongue  as  leader  for  the  team, 
which  conveyed  the  information  to  possible  cus- 
tomers that  "there  was  nothing  doing."  And  if 
you  should  be  curious  enough  to  pull  up  the  wagon- 
sheet  behind,  which  was  now  drawn,  you  would 
probably  see  the  same  pigs  or  the  same  turkeys  in 
the  crate  going  home  again. 

"The  mule's  tied  behind,  all  right!"  Tovey  sang 
out  cheerfully,  having  got  a  side  view. 


232  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"Praise  the  hills!"   Turner  exclaimed  fervidly. 

Crombie  was  already  in  the  road  waiting  for  the 
wagon,  now  near  at  hand. 

"I  don't  know  the  driver;  never  saw  him  before," 
he  said  uneasily. 

This  man,  seated  high  above  his  team,  wore  a 
black  slouch  hat  flared  from  his  face,  and  brown 
corduroy  clothes.  He  was  young.  His  skin  was 
pink,  his  eyes  black  and  piercing.  He  had  a  fight- 
ing man's  nose,  arched,  thin  nostrils,  that  lifted  into! 
a  snarl  at  the  corners.  His  glance  was  bold,  and 
he  was  regarding  Crombie  with  the  shadow  of  a 
grin,  not  challenging,  but  provocative. 

"I  don't  like  his  looks;  can't  afford  to  make  a 
mistake,  you  know,"  Crombie  muttered. 

"Oh,  what  does  it  matter  how  he  looks'?"  Turner 
growled  impatiently,  seeing  that  the  man  meant  to 
drive  on. 

"The  mule's  there!  You  go  by  the  mule,  not 
the  driver!"  Towne  urged  from  within. 

Crombie  waved  a  signal,  crossed  the  road  to  the 
wagon. 

An  undertaker  and  a  moonshiner  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  their  customers.  And  they  usually  take 
it,  for  you  are  either  too  dead  to  dicker  with  the 
former  about  the  cost  of  your  funeral,  or  you  are 
too  hurried  to  dispute  with  the  latter  about  the 
price  of  his  commodity.  This  was  an  open  road,  a 
very  public  place.  Crombie  was  a  prominent  citi- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  233 

zen,  about  as  well  known  as  this  wagon  with  its 
mule  trailer. 

The  transaction  was  made  with  celerity.  He 
stepped  hastily  back  across  the  road,  swung  himself 
to  the  car,  and  made  off  at  a  lively  speed. 

"Fifteen  dollars  a  quart!  It's  awful,"  he  com- 
plained. 

"That's  the  only  prohibition  we've  got  so  far, 
the  price  these  rascals  charge  for  the  stuff,"  Turner 
said. 

Still  they  were  cheerful.  The  car  was  now 
faintly  fragrant.  The  day's  pleasure  was  assured 
whatever  luck  they  had  with  the  guns.  They  left 
the  highway  and  turned  into  an  old  farm  road. 
Presently  they  came  to  a  long  stretch  of  meadows 
and  stubble  land  below  wooded  hills. 

"This  is  the  place,"  Crombie  said.  "I  thought  we 
might  get  further  in,  but  the  road  is  ditched;  can't 
make  it!" 

Turner  wanted  to  know  if  it  was  safe  to  leave 
the  car  there.  He  was  assured  tfyat  it  would  be 
perfectly  safe.  In  fact,  Crombie  doubted  if  he 
could  get  it  out  when  they  started  home.  They 
shouldered  their  guns,  the  dogs  spread  out  in  the 
stubble.  Presently  hunters  and  dogs  disappeared 
over  the  rise  of  the  hill  into  the  meadow  beyond. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  Tovey 
and  Towne  reappeared  over  the  top  of  this  hill,  the 


234  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

elder  men  far  in  the  rear.  Suddenly  Towne  halted 
and  stared. 

"The  devil !"  he  exclaimed.  Tovey  followed  his 
gaze  and  also  stared. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  two  raw-boned  sorrel 
mules  hitched  to  a  covered  wagon  grazed  by  the 
roadside.  A  gray  mule  hitched  to  the  end  of  the 
tongue  stood  with  his  ears  laid  back,  too  tightly 
reined  up  to  get  his  head  to  the  ground. 

"Same  outfit  we  met  this  morning!"  Tovey  ex- 
claimed. 

"Where's  the  car"?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know !"  Towne  returned. 

"Must  be  behind  the  wagon,"  Tovey  said,  as  they 
started  walking  fast. 

The  car  was  not  behind  the  wagon.  The  earth 
had  been  skinned  for  fifty  feet  where  the  wheels 
skidded  across  the  road  into  the  field  and  then  back 
to  the  road.  They  went  back  to  the  wagon.  No 
driver.  Nothing  inside  but  the  roll  of  bedding  and 
the  crate  with  three  small  pigs  in  it. 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  Towne  exclaimed  with  a  look 
of  dismay. 

They  heard  a  yell  and  saw  Crombie  and  Turner 
standing  on  the  hill  above  them. 

"What's  the  matter1?"  Crombie  shouted  as  he 
came  plunging  down. 

"Somebody's  stolen  your  car !"  Towne  answered. 

Crombie' s  consternation  was  too  deep  for  proper 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  235 

language,  and  language  strong  enough  had  not 
come  to  him.  Turner  was  plaintive.  He  was  a 
fat  man ;  'he  was  also  a  tired  fat  man. 

"Well,  we've  got  to  get  back  to  town  as  soon  as 
possible  to  notify  the  police,"  Tovey  announced. 

"We  can  get  back,  but  not  soon,"  Towne  an- 
swered ruefully. 

The  four  men  stood  with  a  single  thought  con- 
templating the  wagon.  Crombie's  face  was  swell- 
ing with  suppressed  rage.  He  began  to  nimble 
profanely. 

Towne  climbed  into  the  driver's  seat  and  took 
the  reins.  Tovey  seized  the  gray  mule's  bridle. 
They  undertook  to  turn  the  team  and  wagon.  They 
were  inexperienced  in  this  business.  There  was  a 
terrific  commotion;  the  wheels  cut  in  beneath  the 
bed,  and  at  one  moment  disaster  seemed  imminent 
as  this  cumbersome  body  careened  like  a  prostrated 
balloon.  At  last,  however,  they  were  back  in  the 
road. 

"Crawl  in,  gentlemen!"  Tovey  shouted.  "I  may 
have  to  ride  the  gray  mule,  but  we'll  try  driving 
him  at  long  distance  first.  Never  do  to  hitch  him 
behind!" 

He  scaled  the  front  wheel  to  the  seat  beside 
Towne,  while  Crombie  and  Turner  went  in  labori- 
ously over  the  crate  of  pigs. 

"Tovey,"  said  Towne  while  this  scuffling  ascen- 
sion in  the  rear  was  going  on,  "if  this  is  a  straight 


236  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

road  we  can  make  it,  but  I'll  never  get  this  darn 
thing  around  a  sharp  curve  without  an  accident!" 

They  started  for  Millidge  in  this  fashion.  Turner 
slept,  not  peacefully,  but  soundly,  reclining  against 
the  crate,  legs  stretched  in  a  medley  of  guns  and 
dogs,  with  bunches  of  partridges  dangling  from  the 
frame  of  the  wagon  above.  But  Crombie,  seated 
hunched  up  on  the  end  of  the  straw  tick,  erupted 
from  time  to  time  when  the  road  was  smooth  enough 
for  his  voice  to  be  heard  above  the  rumble  of  the 
wagon.  He  reminded  the  two  men  in  front  that  he 
suspected  that  fellow  from  the  first.  He  had  not 
wanted  to  deal  with  him  when  they  stopped  to  get 
the  stuff  that  morning.  He  suspected  then  that  he 
was  not  what  he  pretended  to  be.  Never  had  seen 
a  bootlegger  or  moonshiner  gotten  up  like  that. 
The  whole  thing  had  been  planned,  to  steal  his  six- 
thousand-dollar  car  and  leave  this  contaminated 
wagon  in  exchange.  It  was  not  only  the  boldest 
kind  of  robbery,  it  was  an  insult,  especially  that 
gray  mule.  Why  didn't  Towne  make  the  con- 
demned beast  move  on  faster?  At  this  rate  they 
would  not  reach  Millidge  before  midnight!  And 
it  was  imperative  to  start  the  police  on  that  rascal's 
trail  while  it  was  fresh!  Whereupon  the  drivers 
united  in  the  effort  to  urge  the  tired  team. 

Millidge  was  agog  next  day  with  news  of  this 
affair.  Other  cars  had  been  stolen  there,  but  never 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  237 

one  from  among  the  elect  before  this  time.  A  re- 
porter hastened  to  interview  Crombie,  and  was 
coldly  received,  but  he  gathered  sufficient  details 
of  the  disaster  from  the  other  three  hunters  to  write 
a  faintly  humorous  story  for  the  Ledger,  not  omit- 
ting a  veiled  reference  to  the  hunting  party's  first 
meeting  with  the  suspected  thief.  Deputies  and 
detectives  bestirred  themselves.  They  wired  the 
particulars  and  a  description  of  the  car  to  every 
town  and  city  in  the  State.  Meanwhile  they  fol- 
lowed the  clue  furnished  by  Crombie  and  his  com- 
panions and  sought  the  man  whom  they  had  seen 
in  the  wagon.  It  was  like  chasing  a  red  fox  across 
the  mountains.  Few  people  would  admit  ever  hav- 
ing seen  these  mules  and  this  wagon,  which  was 
now  on  exhibition  at  the  police  station,  and  nobody 
remembered  ever  having  seen  such  a  man,  least  of 
all  in  the  remote  fastnesses  of  the  hills  from  which 
he  was  supposed  to  have  come. 

One  day  Cutmore  had  gone  to  the  police  station 
to  see  a  client.  When  he  came  out  he  saw  the  mules 
standing  hitched  in  the  sun  beside  the  wagon.  Later 
a  police  sergeant  reported  what  happened  to  the 
chief.  He  said  Mr.  Cutmore  acted  as  if  he  recog- 
nized that  outfit,  which  was  not  remarkable,  since 
a  lot  of  people  must  know  it.  But  the  singular 
thing  to  him  was  that  these  mules  seemed  to  know 
Mr.  Cutmore.  He  had  distinctly  heard  him  ad- 
dress the  gray  one  as  "Pete,"  and  he  had  been  aston- 


238  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

ished  to  see  the  said  mule  prick  his  ears  and  whinny 
as  Mr.  Cutmore  approached  him.  Now  the  chief 
knew  that  no  man  in  the  department  dared  trust 
himself  within  reach  of  that  blasted  mule,  but  he 
had  seen  Mr.  Cutmore  rub  his  nose  and  actually 
stroke  his  hind  legs.  He  would  have  said  that 
there  was  every  evidence  of  a  former  agreeable  ac- 
quaintance between  Mr.  Cutmore  and  that  mule. 
What  did  the  chief  think?  The  chief  thought  it 
was  a  coincidence.  "Pete"  was  a  common  name 
among  mules.  Some  men  were  unaccountably  at- 
tractive to  animals.  That  was  his  explanation. 

The  next  day  Crombie  called  Puckle  on  the 
phone.  The  man  who  stole  his  car  had  been  taken. 
He  had  been  brought  in  the  night  before  from  the 
mountains  above  Millidge.  No,  they  had  not  got 
the  car.  The  remains  of  it  would  no  doubt  be 
found  somewhere  up  there.  Yes,  of  course  he  pro- 
tested his  innocence;  they  all  did  until  they  were 
proved  guilty.  There  was  no  doubt,  however,  that 
this  fellow  was  the  thief.  Crombie  had  gone  at 
once  to  the  jail  and  identified  him.  Turner,  Tovey, 
and  Towne,  who  went  with  him,  had  also  recog- 
nized him  as  the  man  they  had  seen  in  the  wagon. 
They  had  passed  him  in  the  road  on  the  morning 
of  the  hunt.  This  was  the  wagon  that  had  been 
left  in  exchange  for  his  car. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  239 

Then  he  told  Puckle  that  he  wanted  him  to  take 
the  case. 

"I  am  asking  you  to  take  it  because  I  want  a 
vigorous  prosecution,"  he  explained. 

Puckle  said  he  would  do  his  best.  Crombie  did 
not  think  the  man  could  give  bail.  He  was  a  stran- 
ger. Nobody  in  Millidge  would  go  bond  for  him. 
But  if  the  matter  came  up  he  hoped  Puckle  would 
see  that  the  bond  was  adequate.  Puckle  was  glad 
to  have  this  case,  not  that  it  was  important,  but 
Crombie  had  never  employed  him  as  counsel  be- 
fore. He  hoped  this  would  lead  to  other  business. 
He  supposed  he  was  indebted  to  Cutmore's  rela- 
tion to  the  Crombies  for  this,  which  reminded  him 
that  he  would  go  in  and  see  Cutmore  about  it. 

Cutmore  was  not  in  his  office.  He  went  back 
and  rang  for  Smalley. 

"Has  Mr.  Cutmore  been  in  this  morning'?"  he 
asked. 

"He  was  here,  but  he  went  out  about  an  hour 
ago,"  Smalley  answered. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  went*?" 

"He  had  a  call  very  early  this  morning  from 
the  police  station.  Miss  Smith  answered  it.  Some 
one  there  wanted  to  see  him  at  once.  Miss  Smith 
gave  him  the  message  first  thing  when  he  came  in. 
He  went  out  then  and  has  not  been  back." 

"Well,  if  he  comes  back  while  I  am  at  lunch,  tell 


240  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

him  to  wait  here  for  me,"  Puckle  said,  putting  on 
his  top-coat  and  hat. 

When  he  returned  at  two  o'clock  Cutmore  was 
in  his  office. 

"We  have  a  new  case,  not  much  of  a  case,  but 
an  important  client,"  Puckle  announced,  dropping 
into  the  chair,  leaning  back  and  regarding  Cutmore 
agreeably. 

"The  more  the  better;  who  is  he*?"  Cutmore 
asked. 

"Crombie." 

"What  sort  of  case  is  it*?"  he  asked. 

"It  seems  that  they  arrested  the  fellow  who  stole 
Crombie' s  car.  I  have  just  had  lunch  with  Crom- 
bie, the  whole  bunch  of  victims,  in  fact,"  he 
laughed. 

"They  will  make  star  witnesses,*'  he  went  on. 
"Crombie  is  madder  about  being  obliged  to  come 
back  to  town  in  that  bootlegger's  wagon  than  about 
the  loss  of  his  car.  Old  Turner  must  be  coached. 
They  say  he  slept  all  the  way  home,  but  he  dreams 
vividly.  He  believes  some  one  passed  them  after 
dark  in  Crombie's  car.  He  thinks  he  saw  this 
through  a  split  in  the  cover  of  the  wagon.  But  his 
description  of  the  driver  does  not  correspond  with 
the  one  they  all  give  of  this  man  who  has  been 
arrested." 

"Did  the  others  see  this  car?"  Cutmore  inter- 
rupted. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  241 

"Oh,  they  say  a  dozen  cars  passed  them,  but 
Crombie  was  in  strict  retirement  inside  the  wagon. 
And  Towne  says  he  and  Tovey  were  too  much  oc- 
cupied with  that  three-mule  team  to  pay  attention 
to  anything  else,  but  they  are  certain  that  they 
would  have  known  Crombie' s  big  car." 

"I  am  glad  you  told  me  this,"  Cutmore  said. 

Puckle  glanced  at  him,  and  only  remembered 
afterward  the  grim  expression  of  his  face. 

"Crombie  wants  a  vigorous  prosecution.  I  told 
him  we  could  not  promise  a  conviction,  but  we 
would  do  our  best.  The  trial  ought  to  come  off 
this  week.  You  might  go  down  there  now  and 
arrange,  if  you  can,  that  the  fellow  is  not  released 
on  bond.  Can't  trust  those  mountain  wild-cats," 
Puckle  said,  about  to  rise  from  his  chair. 

"He  is  innocent,"  Cutmore  announced. 

"Hey!" 

"Thomas  did  not  steal  Crombie's  car,"  Cutmore 
repeated. 

Puckle  leaned  back  and  stared  at  him. 

"How  do  you  know?"  he  demanded. 

"I  have  seen  him." 

"Since  his  arrest1?" 

"Yes;  he  sent  for  me  this  morning.  I  have  known 
him  a  long  time.  We  have  eaten  and  slept  together. 
And  I  am  the  only  man  he  knows  here.  That  is 
why  he  sent  for  me." 


242  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"Where  did  you  know  him?"  Puckle  asked. 
Some  sort  of  revelation  was  always  flashing  out  of 
Cutmore's  past. 

"The  year  I  lived  up  there  in  the  mountains. 
These  Thomases  were  my  only  neighbors.  There  is 
a  dozen  of  them.  I  have  ridden  that  gray  mule 
across  Crow's  Mountain  and  back  again  many 
times." 

"Then  you  know  he  is  a  moonshiner,"  Puckle 
said. 

"He  may  be.  Crombie  knows  more  about  that 
than  I  do,"  he  answered  significantly. 

"I  am  sorry  you  took  the  case  against  him,"  he 
added. 

"Well,  we  have  taken  it,  and  your  young  friend 
will  have  the  devil  of  a  time  proving  his  inno- 
cence." 

"Because,"  Cutmore  went  on,  "I  shall  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  prosecution  of  this  man.  The 
fact  is,  I  have  promised  to  defend  him!" 

"Without  consulting  me?"  Puckle  asked,  red- 
dening. 

"As  you  agreed  to  prosecute  for  Crombie." 

"That's  different." 

"I  admit  it,"  Cutmore  said.  "I  should  have  con- 
sulted you.  I  apologize.  But  in  any  case  I  shall 
defend  Thomas.  He  is  out  now  on  bond.  I  ar- 
ranged that  this  morning." 

Puckle  came  to  his  feet.     He  was  furious.     He 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  243 

made  no  reply  to  something  Cutmore  said  about 
relieving  him  of  "all  embarrassment"  as  he  left  the 
room.  That  young  whelp  had  shot  his  bolt  again! 
Now  they  were  in  this  mess.  How  could  he  ex- 
plain this  situation  to  Crombie?  Of  course  it  was 
embarrassing,  he  fumed. 

Cutmore  went  home  alone  at  the  end  of  this  day, 
although  it  was  Wednesday." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Puckle?"  Betty  exclaimed  when 
she  met  him  at  the  door. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  briefly,  as  he  flung 
off  his  topcoat,  hung  up  his  hat,  and  hurried  in  to 
the  fire. 

"But  isn't  he  coming  to  dinner*?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  still  more  briefly. 

"I  am  so  sorry.  I  had  such  a  nice  dinner,  the 
things  he  likes,"  she  said,  showing  her  disappoint- 
ment. 

"Well,  then,  you've  probably  got  the  things  I 
don't  like." 

"Windy,  you  forgot  to  kiss  me,"  she  then  re- 
minded him. 

He  did  this  perfunctorily. 

She  thought  Windy  must  be  taking  a  cold.  He 
did  not  look  well.  But  he  was  frequently  edged 
up  as  he  was  now.  Maybe  he  was  working  too 
hard.  It  was  just  as  well,  she  decided,  that  Mr. 
Puckle  didn't  come,  especially  if  Windy  had  to 
work. 


244  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

They  had  a  silent  meal.  Betty  had  learned  that 
when  Windy  was  in  a  certain  mood  he  resented 
conversation. 

"I  wish  you  did  not  have  to  go  back  to  the  office. 
You  are  so  tired,"  she  said  when  they  had  finished 
dinner  and  Cutmore  was  smoking  his  cigar  before 
the  fire  in  the  parlor. 

"I  am  not  tired,"  he  retorted  irritably.  "And  I 
shall  work  in  here,"  he  said,  drawing  a  package  of 
papers  from  his  pocket. 

Betty  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  She  put  the 
keen  little  nose  of  her  wifely  mind  to  the  ground 
and  she  scented  trouble. 

"Windy!  Something  has  happened!"  she  said 
suddenly. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  laying  aside  the  papers  he 
had  been  reading,  implying  that  they  might  as  well 
have  it  out  now  as  later. 

"What  is  it?"  she  demanded. 

"I  have  severed  my  relations  with  Puckle,"  he 
said,  looking  across  at  her. 

She  had  bent  a  little  forward  in  her  chair,  her 
eyes  wide,  her  lips  parted,  one  hand  pressed  to  her 
breast. 

"You  quarreled  with  him?" 

"Well,  not  exactly." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear !"  she  cried  softly. 

"Well,  it  is  not  as  bad  as  all  that !"  he  exclaimed. 

"But  what  will  you  do?" 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  245 

"Practice  law,  of  course.  I  am  not  dependent  on 
Puckle.  I've  got  a  case  now.  That,  by  the  way, 
was  the  cause  of  the  break  between  us." 

He  told  her  what  had  happened,  the  whole  story 
of  Thomas,  and  of  their  association. 

"I  did  not  know  you  had  ever  lived  in  the  moun- 
tains," she  said. 

"There  are  a  lot  of  things  you  don't  know  about 
me,"  he  said,  smiling,  and  went  on,  telling  her  of 
Thomas's  arrest  for  the  theft  of  Crombie's  car,  of 
how  he  had  promised  to  defend  him  without  know- 
ing that  Crombie  had  retained  Puckle  to  prosecute 
him. 

"If  the  man  is  innocent,  it  is  very  simple,"  she 
put  in. 

"How?" 

"You  could  just  leave  him  to  come  clear,  and 
make  it  up  with  Mr.  Puckle.  The  law  does  clear 
the  innocent,  doesn't  it1?" 

He  regarded  her  confidence  in  the  law  almost 
pityingly. 

"Not  if  Puckle  gets  before  the  jury!"  he  an- 
swered. "You  don't  know  him.  You  see  him  when 
he  is  not  a  lawyer.  When  he  is,  he  is  terrible. 
Thomas  was  locked  up;  no  one  to  handle  his  case, 
no  money,  no  friends.  I  shall  have  to  work  like 
everything  to  locate  the  only  witness  who  can  prove 
his  innocence." 


246  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

Now  that  he  had'  told  Betty,  he  felt  better.  He 
reassured  her.  The  future  was  bright,  he  said,  and 
now  he  would  not  have  to  share  that  future  with 
Puckle. 

Presently  she  went  up-stairs  and  left  him  to  pre- 
pare this  case.  She  flung  herself  across  the  bed  and 
stared  into  the  darkness.  When  a  woman  does  that 
she  is  thinking  the  thoughts  of  defeat ;  with  courage 
and  fortitude,  it  may  be,  but  in  any  case  she  is 
bucking  Fate  on  her  back.  Only  God  sees  her  eyes 
then.  They  are  always  wide  and  tragic. 

Betty  was  seeing  through  her  glass  darkly,  but 
she  saw  clearly  enough  to  wonder  if  all  men  were 
hard  to  get  on  with.  She  decided  that  this  must 
be  the  case.  Therefore  Windy  was  not  to  blame 
if  he  was  cursed  with  the  common  nature  of  man. 
She  should  be  thankful  he  did  not  drink  nor  gamble. 
She  cast  a  sop  of  pity  to  those  women  whose  hus- 
bands developed  these  attributes  in  addition  to  their 
natural  perversities  and  awful  virtues. 

The  compensations  women  discover  by  which  to 
make  the  ends  of  their  love  and  trust  meet  are 
pathetic;  when  the  worst  happens  for  which  the 
marriage  ceremony  provides  so  rigidly,  they  can 
always  face  about  and  be  thankful  at  some  other 
woman's  expense  whose  husband  has  graver  faults. 

There  was  nothing  to  distinguish  the  trial  of 
Babe  Thomas  for  the  theft  of  Mr.  William  Crom- 
bie's  car  from  the  usual  run  of  cases  in  the  city 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  247 

court.  The  riff-raff  audience  lolling  in  the  back  of 
the  court-room  was  not  of  a  sort  to  recognize  the 
sensation  behind  the  fact  that  Martin  Puckle  was 
prosecuting  and  Windham  Cutmore  defending  the 
prisoner.  Few  of  them  knew  that  these  two  had 
been  partners  in  the  same  firm.  Puckle  had  not 
revealed  the  breach  between  him  and  Cutmore  to 
Crombie  until  the  last  moment. 

There  was  an  occasional  suppressed  snicker  as 
one  after  another  witness  for  the  prosecution  gave 
his  testimony.  The  story  of  Crombie' s  return  to 
town  in  the  moonshiner's  wagon  was  all  the  more 
diverting  because  of  his  obvious  indignation.  He 
could  not  forbear  a  gesture  now  and  then  toward 
Babe,  who  sat,  hunched  up  in  his  corduroys,  his 
dark  face  still  pink  and  clean-shaven,  his  eyes  im- 
movably fixed  on  vacancy,  his  black  slouch  hat  in 
plain  view  beside  him,  on  the  bench. 

Cutmore  waived  his  privilege  of  cross-questioning 
these  witnesses  until  Turner  had  finished  his  ac- 
count of  what  happened  on  the  day  of  the  hunt, 
which  was  a  repetition  of  previous  testimony  given 
by  the  other  members  of  Crombie' s  party. 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Turner,"  Cutmore  said,  de- 
taining him. 

"When  you  were  in  the  wagon  returning  to  Mil- 
lidge  that  night,  did  you  not  see  a  car  passing  on 
the  road  which  you  took  for  Mr.  Crombie's  car1?" 

Turner  glanced  at  Cutmore  and  hesitated.     He 


248  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

had  been  convinced  that  this  was  a  dream.  A 
witness-stand,  he  was  warned,  was  no  place  to  tell 
nightmares.  Still  he  was  an  honest  man,  under 
oath. 

"Yes,  for  a  moment,  I  did  think  it  was  Crom- 
bie's  car,"  he  admitted. 

"You  saw  the  driver?" 

"For  the  briefest  instant  through  a  slit  in  the 
wagon-cover.  The  car  was  going  very  fast,"  he 
answered. 

"Did  he  wear  an  overcoat*?" 

"My  impression  is  that  he  did." 

"You  are  sure  he  wore  a  black  slouch  hat4?" 

"No,  a  cap."     Turner  admitted  slowly. 

"Was  he  clean-shaven1?" 

"I  can't  say!"  he  answered  after  a  longer  pause. 

"What  is  your  impression'?" 

Puckle  interrupted.  He  wished  to  remind  Mr. 
Cutmore  that  the  witness  was  supposed  to  give  his 
testimony,  not  his  impressions.  The  judge  so 
ruled.  Turner  was  allowed  to  leave  the  stand.  But 
Cutmore  had  gained  his  point.  Every  man  on  the 
jury  inferred  that  the  man  he  had  seen  did  not 
resemble  Thomas. 

The  first  witness  for  the  defense  was  now  called. 
Puckle  supposed  this  would  be  a  mountaineer,  ex- 
pected to  give  testimony  by  which  Cutmore  would 
seek  to  prove  an  alibi  for  his  client.  But  when  the 
deputy  returned  from  the  witness-room  there  was 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  249 

no  mistaking  the  man  who  accompanied  him. 
Puckle  knew  him  and  stared.  Crombie  knew  him 
and  snorted  his  indignant  astonishment.  The  judge 
knew  him  and  grinned  merely  the  veiled  shadow 
of  a  grin.  Even  the  prisoner  flashed  a  smile  at 
him.  His  name  was  Timothy  Sykes,  and  he  was 
well  known  in  Millidge,  especially  in  this  court, 
where  he  had  frequently  appeared  as  a  witness, 
but  never  before  in  the  defense  of  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar.  He  was  one  of  several  revenue  officers 
stationed  there  for  the  apprehension  and  prosecu- 
tion of  dealers  in  illicit  liquor. 

He  was  trained  in  the  art  of  giving  testimony 
and  was  allowed  to  tell  his  own  story.  He  said 
that  he  and  another  officer  had  been  sent  out  about 
noon  on  the  third  day  of  December  to  arrest  the 
man,  woman,  or  boy  who  drove  a  covered  wagon 
with  a  gray  mule  hitched  behind  and  who  was  re- 
ported to  be  selling  whisky  on  the  Millidge  road. 
They  had  overtaken  this  team  and  recognized  it, 
although  the  gray  mule  was  hitched  in  front.  The 
man  had  just  left  the  main  highway  and  had  taken 
the  road  which  led  to  what  is  known  as  the  River 
Meadow  farms.  They  had  stopped  their  car  on 
the  highway  and  started  on  foot  to  overtake  the 
wagon.  But  before  they  reached  it,  this  man,  jerk- 
ing his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  prisoner,  had 
caught  sight  of  them,  leaped  from  his  wagon,  and 
ran  down  the  road.  They  had  gone  after  him.  But 


250  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

when  he  came  to  the  open  meadows  he  had  immedi- 
ately left  the  road  and  kept  to  the  woods. 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Sykes,"  Cutmore  said,  inter- 
rupting him.  "You  were  then  in  plain  view  of  that 
part  of  this  road  which  runs  through  the  meadows?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Did  you  see  a  large  touring-car  standing  in  it 
only  a  short  distance  away,  say  fifty  yards'?" 

"I  did  not." 

"You  could  have  seen  it  if  it  had  been  there1?" 

"Undoubtedly,  sir;  we  would  not  only  have  seen 
it,  we  should  have  searched  it.  We  have  instruc- 
tions to  investigate  automobiles  found  in  lonely, 
out-of-the-way  places." 

"What  time  was  this?" 

"Well,  I  can't  be  sure,  but  it  could  not  have  been 
later  than  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon." 

Cutmore  bowed  gravely. 

"Proceed,  Mr.  Sykes.  What  happened  next?" 
he  asked,  at  the  same  time  casting  a  slow  glance  at 
Puckle  and  Crombie. 

Puckle  was  very  red,  but  Crombie  sat  like  the 
pale  image  of  outraged  virtue. 

Sykes  said  they  had  continued  the  chase  and  that 
it  was  not  so  much  a  matter  of  speed,  but  that  the 
ground  was  broken,  and  covered  with  undergrowth. 
They  had  finally  lost  sight  of  him  and  gone  back 
to  search  the  wagon.  They  had  found  the  team 
grazing  beside  the  road  at  the  entrance  to  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  251 

meadows.  There  was  nothing  contraband  in  the 
wagon,  although  the  odor  of  it  was  distinctly  illicit. 
They  had  remained  concealed  in  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  believing  that  the  man  might  come  back  for 
his  wagon  when  he  decided  that  they  had  abandoned 
the  chase.  This  was  exactly  what  happened.  They 
had  been  there  perhaps  an  hour  when  he  appeared 
on  the  hill  behind  them.  Unfortunately  he  was 
descending  directly  toward  them.  This  was  how 
they  missed  him  the  second  time.  He  had  caught 
sight  of  them,  wheeled,  and  made  back.  There 
was  less  undergrowth  here,  and  they  had  been  able 
to  keep  him  in  sight  until  they  came  to  the  river, 
perhaps  two  miles  away  from  where  they  started. 
He  thought  the  man  must  have  forded  this  stream. 
He  was  nowhere  in  sight.  They  had  then  given 
up  the  chase  and  returned  to  their  car.  This  was 
all. 

"What  time  did  you  reach  your  car*?"  Cutmore 
asked. 

"Three  o'clock,  sir." 

"How  do  you  know*?" 

"I  looked  at  my  watch." 

"Why  did  you  abandon  the  wagon  *?" 

"The  law  does  not  include  the  scent  of  whisky 
as  contraband.  We  had  no  right  to  confiscate  the 
wagon." 

Puckle  declined  to  question  this  witness. 

"Your   Honor,"    Cutmore   said,    rising   and   ad- 


252  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

dressing  the  judge.  "I  am  not  prepared  to  explain 
why  my  client  took  to  his  heels  at  the  sight  of  Mr. 
Timothy  Sykes,  although  Mr.  Sykes  admits  he 
found  nothing  contraband  in  his  possession,  and 
unless  some  witness  is  produced  who  can  testify  that 
of  his  own  knowledge  Thomas  had  liquor  and  dealt 
in  this  abominable  traffic  on  that  day  I  fail  to  see 
how  he  can  be  charged  even  with  this  offense." 

Cutmore  paused  and  stared  at  Crombie  His 
expression  was  politely  malicious  and  offensively 
interrogative. 

"But  it  is  quite  a  different  matter  to  be  charged 
with  stealing  a  six-thousand-dollar  car,"  he  went 
on.  "Now,  if,  according  to  Mr.  Sykes's  testimony, 
Mr.  Crombie's  car  had  already  disappeared  from 
the  place  where  he  left  it  at  one  o'clock  on  this 
day,  and  if,  according  to  his  account,  the  defendant 
was  three  miles  distant  and  still  going  in  the  oppo- 
site direction  at  the  very  time  when  Mr.  Tovey  and 
Mr.  Towne  discovered  the  loss  of  the  car,  it  was  a 
physical  impossibility  for  my  client  to  have  com- 
mitted this  crime.  I  therefore  move,  your  Honor, 
that  a  verdict  be  directed  for  the  defendant." 

Puckle  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  about  to 
address  the  court  when  a  policeman  entered  and 
handed  a  telegram  to  Cutmore  which  had  been 
opened. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  253 

Cutmore  glanced  at  it. 

"With  your  Honor's  permission,"  he  said,  "I 
wish  to  submit  one  more  evidence  of  the  defend- 
ant's innocence." 

The  judge  bowed;  Puckle  resumed  his  seat. 

"This  is  a  telegram  addressed  to  the  chief  of  po- 
lice, Millidge,  Georgia,  and  comes  from  the  chief 
of  police,  Savannah,  Georgia.  It  reads,  'Large  tour- 
ing-car located  here.  Description  answers  to  one 
stolen  near  Millidge  on  December  3rd;  number  of 
motor,  626,791;  dark-blue  body;  monogram  on 
door  in  gilt  letters,  "W.  C."  Description  of  man 
taken  with  car  does  not  tally  with  one  sent.  Fair, 
blue  eyes,  short,  age  29,  wears  gray  suit,  dark-blue 
overcoat,  black-fur  cap,  claims  New  York  as  his 
home,  speaks  with  Northern  accent.  Wire  instruc- 
tions,' "  he  concluded,  offering  the  yellow  slip  to 
the  judge. 

"Verdict  directed  for  the  defendant,"  the  judge 
announced. 

Cutmore  glanced  at  Puckle,  who  was  talking  to 
Crombie.  He  did  not  wait,  but  went  through  the 
rear  door  with  Babe  Thomas  and  Timothy  Sykes. 
He  thought  Puckle  meant  to  come  across  and  speak 
to  him.  He  had  not  seen  him  since  the  day  of  the 
breach  when  he  had  withdrawn  from  the  partner- 
ship. But  he  could  not  afford  to  give  Puckle  the 
opportunity  not  to  speak  to  him.  He  crossed  the 


254  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

open  space  before  the  court-house  and  went  down 
Union  Street.  He  was  not  enjoying  his  triumph. 
It  was  a  small  one.  He  thought  if  Puckle  had  not 
been  so  flattered  by  Crombie's  patronage,  he  would 
have  discovered  the  weakness  in  Crombie's  suspi- 
cion from  the  first.  That  was  his  frailty:  he  could 
always  be  flattered  by  a  certain  class,  thus  admit- 
ting his  sense  of  inferiority.  Still,  Puckle  was  a 
big  man.  He  glanced  up  and  saw  the  sign,  Puckle 
&  Cutmore.  It  had  not  been  changed  yet.  He 
supposed  it  would  be  now,  at  once.  This  gave  him 
a  sense  of  depression,  of  having  been  demoted.  He 
wondered  how  much  money  Betty  had  saved.  They 
were  up  against  it  now.  It  was  like  starting  at  the 
bottom  again.  He  must  look  out  for  an  office 
somewhere.  The  one  he  had  before  going  in  with 
Puckle  had  been  rented  long  ago.  He  would  go 
home  and  have  lunch  with  Betty.  She  would  be 
glad  to  hear  the  outcome  of  this  case.  Betty  was 
a  brick.  But  he  did  wish  she  could  make  herself 
less  anxious  until  he  could  get  going  again,  not  that 
she  said  so,  but  he  saw  it  in  her  eyes,  he  felt  it  in 
her  deeper  tenderness  toward  him.  A  woman's  love 
could  become  a  burden,  he  decided. 

Betty  professed  to  be  rejoiced  at  the  news  of  his 
success  with  the  defense  of  Thomas.  But  she 
showed  no  signs  of  elation.  She  was  simply  duti- 
fully proud  of  her  husband.  She  was  in  fact  pre- 
occupied with  her  own  thoughts.  She  was  in  that 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  255 

poignant  state  of  mind  and  body  which  calls  for 
action  or  hysterics,  when  a  woman  usually  yields 
to  the  latter  if  her  husband  is  a  strong  and  placid 
person  who  does  not  catch  the  infection. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

If  a  woman  loves  her  husband  with  courage  and 
no  slavish,  diminishing  devotion,  her  criticisms  of 
him  are  frequently  higher  testimonials  of  admira- 
tion than  his  best  virtues  could  earn.  Having 
crowned  Windy  with  all  the  excellencies  of  his 
fault,  she  made  up  her  eminently  practical  mind 
to  retrieve  his  future  for  him,  which  was  certainly 
not  safe  in  his  hands.  She  could  never  make  her 
Aunt  Clarinda's  mistake  of  serving  him  too  humbly, 
but  she  would  serve  him  more  effectively. 

William  Crombie  was  gratified  at  the  recovery 
of  his  car.  He  would  leave  for  Savannah  Wednes- 
day morning  to  identify  it.  The  sheriff  would  go 
with  him  to  bring  the  man  back  who  had  stolen  it. 
But  he  still  suffered  an  unreasonable  chagrin  at  the 
turn  the  trial  of  Babe  Thomas  had  taken.  It  was 
not  that  he  wanted  an  innocent  man  punished,  but 
the  whole  thing  had  been  such  a  preposterous  mis- 
take. And  he  had  been  exposed  to  the  vulgar  mirth 
of  the  crowd  in  the  court-room,  a  most  undignified 
position  for  him. 

Puckle  had  prepared  him  for  the  position  Cut- 
more  had  elected  himself,  as  counsel  for  the  defend- 
ant. This  was  the  first  he  had  known  of  the  breach 

256 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  257 

between  them.  But  he  had  not  been  prepared  for 
the  insufferable  manner  in  which  Cutmore  behaved. 
The  boldness  with  which  he  had  cast  that  insinua- 
tion at  him,  Crombie,  about  buying  stuff  from  this 
bootlegger!  He  had  never  liked  Cutmore;  his  man- 
ner was  too  confoundedly  superior,  with  nothing  to 
justify  it. 

Sarah  came  into  the  library,  where  he  was  smok- 
ing his  cigar  and  thinking  it  over. 

He  told  her  the  news  of  Cutmore's  having  with- 
drawn from  his  partnership  with  Puckle! 

"How  dreadful !"  she  exclaimed.  She  wanted  to 
know  all  about  it. 

He  told  her  of  his  disagreement  over  this  case, 
with  Puckle,  whom  he,  Crombie,  had  employed  to 
prosecute. 

"Same  old  story,"  he  added.  "Too  conscious  of 
himself,  his  honor,  his  views,  his  notion  of  justice. 
Never  can  sit  steady  in  the  boat;  got  to  get  up 
and  rock  it;  no  more  settled  than  the  wind." 

"I  am  sorry  for  Betty.  It's  awful  for  her,"  Sarah 
said. 

"Nice  girl.  Threw  herself  away  on  a  fool ;  could 
have  done  better,  much  better,"  he  answered 
thoughtfully. 

The  knocker  fell  on  the  door  in  the  hall.     The 
maid  came  to  tell  Sarah  Mr.  Towne  was  calling. 
"Well,  what  do  you  think?     Most  preposterous 


258  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

thing  you  ever  heard  of.  Cutmore  has  thrown  the 
fat  in  the  fire  again,"  he  announced. 

"Yes,  I  know.  Father  has  just  been  telling  me 
about  it,"  she  answered  sadly. 

"I  dropped  in  on  Puckle  this  afternoon.  He 
won't  talk  about  it.  Showed  his  teeth  when  I  tried 
to  guy  him.  I  warned  him  against  taking  Cutmore 
in  with  him,"  Towne  went  on. 

"I  am  thinking  of  poor  Betty,"  she  said. 

"Bad  for  her.  Never  could  see  why  she  took 
Cutmore  when  she  could  have  married  Puckle  like 
a  flash,"  he  said. 

"Absurd!" 

"He  was  crazy  about  her;  is  yet,  I  suspect," 
Towne  told  her. 

"How  did  you  get  such  a  ridiculous  idea, 
Charlie*?  He  is  twice  Betty's  age." 

"Makes  no  difference.  Puckle  told  me  himself; 
that  is,  he  practically  admitted  as  much  to  me  be- 
fore she  married  Cutmore.  That  is  why  I  never 
could  understand  why  he  took  Cutmore  in  with 
him,"  he  went  on. 

"He  must  really  love  her,"  Sarah  said,  begin- 
ning to  comprehend  what  had  always  mystified  her, 
Puckle's  interest  in  Cutmore.  She  remembered  with 
what  surprise  every  one  received  the  announcement 
that  he  had  made  Cutmore  his  partner. 

"Well,  he  is  out  of  it  now.  And  you  will  see 
what  happens.  Presently  the  Cutmores  will  be  liv- 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  259 

ing  in  one  of  those  little  sun-baked  bungalows  out 
there  in  the  Boulevard,  neighbors  to  Jones,  who 
married  the  Clewes  girl,"  he  predicted. 

On  Wednesday  morning  Martin  Puckle  was 
seated  hunched  up,  as  usual,  behind  his  desk.  He 
had  the  bristling  air  of  a  man  who  has  been  look- 
ing for  faults  and  incompetency  where  he  paid  for 
speed  and  efficiency.  His  hair  was  rumpled,  he 
had  not  shaved,  his  face  was  red,  he  was  chewing 
the  end  of  a  cigar,  and  he  was  blowing  the  smoke 
through  his  nose  as  if  he  fanned  the  flames  of 
wrath.  He  had  had  a  row  with  Smalley  that  morn- 
ing about  some  statements  that  should  have  been 
made  out  and  mailed  a  week  ago.  Smalley  ex- 
plained that  Mr.  Cutmore  had  told  him  to  wait  for 
further  instructions  and  that  Mr.  Cutmore  had  left 
without  giving  these  instructions.  This  reference 
to  his  former  partner  was  not  a  happy  one.  He  had 
told  Smalley  a  thing  or  two.  He  had  also  "jacked 
up"  Miss  Smith  for  errors  made  in  typing  letters 
which  he  had  dictated.  He  was  tempted  to  get  rid 
of  that  girl!  He  supposed  she  was  in  tears. — 
Damn  tears!  They  were  an  extravagance  women 
indulged  in,  at  the  expense  of  men. — He  supposed 
they  were  both  out  there  talking  about  him.  That 
was  all  employees  did  these  days,  abuse  their  em- 
ployers. 

No  man  ever  becomes  so  eminent,  so  well  estab- 
lished in  his  own  good  opinion  that  he  is  indifferent 


260  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

to  the  opinion  of  those  who  serve  him.  Puckle  was 
a  remarkably  strong  character  in  this  particular. 
But  on  this  day  he  was  a  very  lonely  man,  sensitive 
to  the  unfriendliness  of  those  about  him.  He  was 
done  with  Cutmore;  that  was  settled.  But  he 
missed  Cutmore,  not  only  his  efficient  work,  by 
which  he  had  been  relieved  of  so  much  drudgery  of 
the  law,  but  he  missed  the  man  himself.  The  place 
had  been  stripped  of  a  fine  presence.  There  was 
an  air  of  elegance  about  him  very  pleasing  to  a 
man  like  Puckle,  who  belonged  to  that  class  of 
people  who  build  palaces,  spread  priceless  rugs  on 
their  floors,  and  collect  "objects  of  art"  because 
they  themselves  are  so  plain,  so  lacking  in  the  quali- 
ties these  mere  things  possess. 

There  was  another,  deeper  cause  for  his  depres- 
sion. What  would  happen  to  Betty  now*?  Cut- 
more  could  never  succeed  at  the  law  if  he  practiced 
alone.  He  was  designed  by  nature  for  a  brilliantly 
unsuccessful  career.  He  would  be  down  and  out 
presently.  Betty  could  stand  it.  She  had  the  cour- 
age. But  what  a  service  for  such  courage !  He  re- 
alized that  his  one  pleasure  for  months  past  had 
been  his  sense  of  guardianship  over  Betty's  fate. 
His  happiness  had  become  more  or  less  dependent 
upon  these  thoughts  for  her.  The  unconscious  ap- 
peal she  made  to  him  in  her  home  had  shriven  him 
of  every  desire  save  the  one  to  serve  her  and  protect 
her.  Now  all  that  was  at  an  end.  For  a  reason 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  261 

so  slight  it  was  foolish,  Cutmore  had  flared  and 
left  the  firm. 

There  was  a  murky  little  ash-can  of  a  grate  be- 
tween the  two  windows  behind  him.  He  liked  the 
open  fire.  He  turned  now  in  his  chair  and  stared 
through  the  windows.  He  sighed  heavily.  Men  do 
sigh  frequently  when  they  are  alone.  It  is  a  secret 
confession  they  make  of  defeat. 

The  door  opened  behind  him;  he  swung  his  chair 
around  as  Miss  Smith  entered,  advanced,  and  laid  a 
card  on  his  desk.  He  held  it  up  and  read  the  name. 

He  was  a  changed  man.  His  mind  flew  around 
cleaning  up  after  his  temper.  He  forgave  Smalley 
his  negligence.  He  stood  up  and  evoluted  before 
the  cold  eyes  of  his  stenographer.  Would  Miss  Smith 
kindly  draw  a  chair  closer  to  the  fire?  No,  not  that 
one,  the  armchair.  Yes,  that  would  do,  thanks! 
Now  would  she  ask  Mrs.  Cutmore  to  come  in? 

Betty  whisked  through  the  door  into  Puckle's 
office.  There  was  a  frost  of  snow  on  the  fur  around 
her  neck ;  it  clung  to  her  coat.  The  top  of  her  muff 
was  covered  with  it.  Sleet  pebbles  and  flakes  of 
it  showed  in  the  folds  of  velvet  on  her  smart  little 
hat  that  fitted  her  head  like  the  crest  of  a  bird. 
The  sting  of  it  had  reddened  her  cheeks,  fired  the 
end  of  her  pretty  nose. 

She  was  very  pretty  and  very,  very  grave.  Her 
lips  were  primped  up  and  disciplined  to  a  severely 


262  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

sweet  red  line  implying  that  she  had  not  brought 
her  smile  with  her  this  morning,  and  it  depended 
entirely  on  Mr.  Puckle  whether  she  ever  used  it 
again  for  his  benefit.  Her  manner,  although  she 
had  not  advanced  two  steps,  expressed  a  sort  of 
slim,  keen  firmness  of  purpose.  If  she  had  been 
armed  to  the  teeth  she  could  not  have  given  more 
strongly  the  impression  of  being  armed. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Puckle,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Betty!"  he  re- 
turned, smiling  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

She  drew  one  from  her  muff  and  gave  it  to  him 
in  return. 

It  was  icy  cold.  He  held  it,  hurrying  her  to  the 
fire. 

"You  must  be  freezing,"  he  said. 

Then  he  began  to  make  a  fuss  over  her.  She  must 
take  off  that  coat  at  once. 

She  yielded  the  coat  and  fur.  He  shook  both 
vigorously,  and  spread  them  'over  the  chair.  But 
her  hat,  it  was  covered  with  snow  which  would  be 
melting  presently.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief 
and  flicked  it  delicately,  as  a  humble  artist  re- 
touches a  masterpiece.  Now  then!  he  said,  draw- 
ing the  chair  nearer,  she  must  put  her  feet  to  the 
fire.  It  was  very  dangerous  going  out  in  weather 
like  this  and  getting  a  chill. 

She  submitted  to  these  ministrations  in  silence. 
She  sat  down  and  placed  her  feet  obediently  on  the 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  263 

ash-stained  fender,  where  the  soles  of  her  boots 
steamed  before  the  blaze.  She  was  not  cold,  but 
she  wanted  to  shiver,  only  she  was  determined  not 
to  shiver. 

Puckle  watched  her.  Her  face  was  grave,  not  so 
pink  now,  although  the  room  was  warm.  It  seemed 
to  him  even  as  he  watched  her  it  whitened.  Then 
all  at  once  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 
that  she  was  staring  at  him  as  if  she  were  a  long 
way  off  through  these  tears. 

There  is  a  great  difference  in  the  effect  of  tears, 
my  masters!  Not  an  hour  since  Puckle  had  been 
in  a  rage  at  the  very  thought  of  the  Smith  girl  weep- 
ing in  his  front  office  because  he  had  rebuked  her. 
Now  he  was  stirred  to  the  deepest  sympathy  at  the 
sight  of  tears  in  Betty's  eyes,  even  though  at  the 
moment  they  welled  over  and  hung  glistening  upon 
her  lashes  her  expression  became  actually  truculent. 

"Betty,  what  is  it*?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  came  to  see  you  about  something,"  she  said, 
controlling  her  voice  perfectly.  "It  involves 
Windy's  fortune  and  happiness,"  she  said. 

He  suppressed  a  grunt.  He  considered  what  he 
could  say  that  would  conceal  what  he  was  thinking. 
Before  he  could  choose  the  lie,  she  went  on. 

"You  know  Windy.    He  is  a  great  man." 

She  made  this  announcement  as  if  who  would 
dare  challenge  it. 


264  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

No  one  in  that  room  would  do  such  a  dastardly 
thing  with  Betty's  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

"Yes,  he  is.  I  have  often  thought  that  myself," 
he  agreed. 

"He  would  not  for  his  life  do  anything  wrong," 
she  said.  "But  sometimes  his  idea  of  what  is  right 
may  not  be  practical." 

He  was  actually  afraid  to  agree  with  this  mild 
arraignment  of  Cutmore,  and  well  he  did  not. 

"But  he  is  always  right !"  she  concluded. 

Puckle  slid  off  of  that.  Unless  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  Betty's  peace  and  happiness  he  would 
not  perjure  himself  to  the  extent  of  agreeing  that 
Cutmore  was  infallible.  What  he  did  say  was  that 
he  was  a  splendid  man,  one  of  the  finest  characters 
he  had  ever  known,  brilliant  too,  and  unlike  many 
men  of  parts,  he  had  energy.  Yes,  one  of  the  best 
lawyers  right  now  in  the  State.  He  searched  his 
mind  rapidly  for  more  and  braver  words  with  which 
to  praise  this  whelp,  noticing  that  Betty  seemed  to 
be  relaxing. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  become 
an  eminently  successful  man,"  he  concluded. 

"Yes,  there  is,  one,"  she  answered  slowly.  "It's 
his  temperament.  Great  men  suffer  from  that.  So 
many  of  them  never  prove  their  quality  because  of 
that  one  thing.  If  somebody  does  not  take  care  of 
them  they  must  fail,"  she  said. 

He  said  that  was  probably  true. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  265 

"So  it  is  the  duty  of  people  like  us,  you  and 
me — "  she  stumbled  here,  having  seen  a  beam  in 
Puckle's  eyes,  and  then  steadied  herself  to  finish, 
"like  you,  who  are  able,  kind,  and  wise,  and  not 
mad;  like  me,  who  am  not  gifted,  but  can  love 
enough,  it  is  our  duty  to  see  that  Windy  gets  his 
chance !" 

He  was  about  to  consider  this  proposition  when 
he  discovered  that  there  would  be  no  time  to  con- 
sider it.  He  saw  that  Betty  was  trembling;  he  saw 
her  lift  one  hand  prayerfully  to  her  breast  for  the 
briefest  instant,  then  drop  it,  hiding  this  prayer. 
He  realized  suddenly  what  this  visit  had  cost  her 
in  anguish  and  courage.  He  felt  his  eyes  smart. 

"You  are  right,  Betty,"  he  exclaimed  hastily, 
"and  I  am  glad  you  came  up  here  to  tell  me.  But 
now  what  do  you  want  me  to  do^" 

"I  want  you  to  take  Windy  back,"  she  said. 

"I  will,  my  dear.  I've  missed  him.  I'll  be  glad 
to  have  him  back,  mighty  glad,"  he  assured  her. 

The  stars  came  out  in  Betty's  face. 

"And  keep  him  here  for  better  or  for  worse,"  she 
cried  with  a  sobbing  laugh. 

She  was  laughing,  God  bless  her!  He  laughed 
too.  He  threw  his  head  back  and  roared  immod- 
erately. He  could  have  cracked  his  heels  together 
at  the  sight  of  her  relief,  knowing  that  he  had  given 
it  to  her. 


266  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "you  send  Windy  up  here 
and  we'll  fix  things." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried  in  alarm,  "I  couldn't  do  that. 
He  must  never  know  that  I  have  been  to  see  you. 
Promise  me." 

He  promised. 

"I  understand,"  he  replied,  "but  how  then  will 
it  be  arranged?" 

"You  must  send  for  him,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  I  see!"  he  said,  seeing  more  than  she  knew 
she  meant,  that  she  was  determined  to  spare  her 
husband  at  his  expense.  "Now  where  shall  I  find 
him1?"  he  wanted  to  know. 

She  was  not  sure,  but  she  thought  he  might  be  in 
Mr.  Tovey's  office. 

Well,  he  would  locate  him.  She  was  to  dismiss 
the  whole  matter,  go  home,  and  be  happy. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  was  warm  now. 
Then  she  stopped  suddenly  at  the  door  as  if  she  had 
just  thought  of  something  very  important.  "This 
is  Wednesday,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with 
all  her  stars  shining. 

He  admitted  that  it  was  Wednesday;  so  it  was, 
but  what  about  it? 

"You  are  coming  as  usual  to  dine  with  us,"  she 
informed  him,  the  faintest  shadow  of  anxiety  in  her 
eyes. 

Of  course  he  was  coming,  he  assured  her,  though 
he  was  far  from  being  certain  about  keeping  this 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  267 

engagement.  He  had  not  seen  Cutmore  yet.  He 
did  not  know  what  would  be  the  outcome  of  this 
business. 

Wednesday  afternoon  Sarah  Crombie  sat  at  her 
desk,  where  she  had  been  writing  some  letters,  the 
kind  that  burn  the  bridges  behind  you.  She  was 
unhappy,  intelligently  so — she  had  a  reason.  She 
had  at  last  promised  to  marry  Charlie  Towne.  She 
did  not  love  him,  but  she  was  tired  of  being  single. 
She  wanted  to  change  her  scenes.  Many  another 
woman  has  married  for  the  same  reason.  She  was 
sure  that  Towne  was  not  in  love  with  her,  at  least 
no  more  than  he  had  been  with  a  dozen  other  wo- 
men. She  understood  him  perfectly,  she  believed; 
had  suspected  for  years  that  he  meant  to  marry  her. 
He  had  carried  on  a  sort  of  inverted  spite  courtship 
during  all  this  time.  She  heard  his  step,  stalking 
her  often  when  he  was  apparently  deeply  engaged 
in  another  affair.  The  only  compliment  involved 
was  one  characteristic  of  him.  He  considered  her 
the  most  suitable  woman  in  Millidge  for  him  to 
marry.  He  wanted  that  kind  of  wife,  good-looking, 
good  brains,  a  manner,  position,  and  money.  Well, 
these  were  her  attributes.  So,  he  had  chosen  her. 
Why,  she  wondered,  had  not  some  real  man  fallen 
in  love  with  her.  This  is  a  question  splendid 
spinsters  frequently  ask  themselves,  and  one  that 
no  man  of  whatever  quality  asks  himself. 


268  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

Sarah  sighed,  laid  her  letters  idly  one  above  an- 
other. Then  she  went  to  the  window  and  stared  at 
the  snow,  which  covered  everything,  lined  the  limbs 
of  every  tree,  capped  every  object  in  sight  with 
white.  The  old  town  looked  like  a  Christmas  card, 
with  those  gray  bunting  clouds  stretched  low  across 
the  horizon,  the  glow  of  a  clear  cold  Winter  sunset 
edging  them  with  green  and  saffron  brightness. 

She  could  just  see  the  steep,  red  gables  of  the  Cut- 
more  residence  through  the  naked  branches  of  the 
trees.  This  reminded  her  of  Betty.  The  poor  child 
was  in  trouble.  She  must  go  over  there. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  started  out,  wrapped  and 
muffled,  bending  her  slender  figure  against  the  wind 
as  she  whipped  along  through  the  snow.  She 
dreaded  this  visit.  She  expected  to  find  Betty  de- 
pressed. But  it  was  only  decent  she  should  go,  let 
her  know  that  she  loved  her  and  still  hoped  for  the 
best.  She  supposed  they  would  leave  Millidge — go 
to  Culloden  probably.  That  would  be  the  wise 
thing  to  do.  Betty  would  at  least  be  with  her  own 
people.  Windy  could  practice  law  with  Colonel 
Marshall.  She  did  hope  they  would  leave  Millidge. 
If  Windy  was  going  to  drag  Betty  according  to  his 
moods  she  wished  he  would  do  it  somewhere  else. 

When  they  think  you  are  about  to  topple  down 
the  rungs  of  the  ladder,  your  friends  frequently  feel 
that  way.  It  is  the  cowardice  of  a  real  affection 
they  have  for  you. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  269 

Marie  answered  the  bell.  Yes,  Mrs.  Cutmore 
was  at  home,  she  said. 

"Oh,  Sarah,  is  that  you?'  Betty  called  out  from 
the  parlor. 

Sarah  said  it  was. 

"Come  in  here;  I  can't  move !"  Betty  called  again. 

Sarah  was  about  to  enter  when  she  caught  sight 
of  what  was  going  on,  and  stood  for  a  moment  in 
the  doorway. 

Betty  was  seated  before  the  blazing  hearth,  sur- 
rounded by  green  boughs  of  holly,  a  half-finished 
wreath  of  it  on  her  knees.  She  wore  a  little  white 
crepe  frock,  square  neck,  long  sleeves,  very  plain, 
like  a  child's  dress.  But  her  hair  was  piled  skittishly 
on  top  of  her  head  like  a  woman's.  Fire-roses 
burned  in  her  cheeks,  red  berries  glistened  among 
the  green  leaves  in  her  lap. 

She  laid  aside  the  wreath,  caught  up  the  front  of 
her  skirt,  holding  the  masses  of  sprays,  and  showing 
the  pretty  stems  of  her  being  as  she  tried  to  step  over 
the  boughs  of  holly  on  the  rug  to  greet  her  guest. 
She  embraced  her  with  one  arm;  she  kissed  her  on 
the  cheek  with  smiling  lips. 

"It  is  so  good  of  you  to  come'this  cold  day.  You 
must  sit  close  to  the  fire,"  she  said,  pushing  a  chair 
nearer.  Then  she  frisked  back  to  the  door,  still 
holding  the  holly,  her  skirt  drawn  tightly  above  her 
petticoat. 

"Marie!"  she  called,  "bring  some  tea!" 


270  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

She  came  back,  balancing  herself  prettily  as  she 
stepped  over  the  holly  to  the  stool  upon  which  she 
had  been  sitting. 

"How  are  you,  my  dear?"  Sarah  asked,  having 
recovered  sufficiently  to  say  something. 

"Oh,  well,  of  course,  and  I  am  having  such  a  good 
time!"  she  exclaimed,  beginning  again  on  the 
wreath. 

Sarah  was  relieved  not  to  find  her  in  tears,  but 
she  certainly  did  not  understand  this  merry  mood. 
The  facts  failed  to  justify  it.  She  wondered  if 
Betty  was  still  in  ignorance  of  what  had  happened 
between  Puckle  and  Cutmore,  in  that  case  this 
joyful  Betty  was  tragic. 

"I  am  so  glad  Mr.  Crombie  has  found  his  car," 
she  said,  presently. 

"Yes,  he  left  this  morning  for  Savannah.  He 
wants  to  make  sure  it  is  his  car  before  having  it 
shipped,"  Sarah  answered. 

"And  they  really  have  caught  the  man  who  stole 
it  this  time,"  Betty  went  on. 

"The  sheriff  thinks  so.  He  went  with  father  to 
bring  him  back,"  Sarah  answered. 

"Windy  insisted  from  the  first  that  that  poor  boy 
from  the  mountains,  'Babe,'  he  called  him,  was  inno- 
cent," Betty  said  as  if  there  was  nothing  tragic  for 
her  connected  with  his  innocence. 

"Yes,"  Sarah  replied,  "and  we  are  all  so  sorry 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  271 

that  led  to  a  breach  between  Mr.  Puckle  and 
Windy." 

Betty  stared  at  her.  Pride  and  love  are  the  very 
graces  of  deceit  in  a  devoted  woman. 

"But  Sarah,"  she  exclaimed,  "there  is  no  breach 
between  Windy  and  Mr.  Puckle !" 

"But  I  understood  he  had  resigned  as  Mr.  Puc- 
kle's  partner,"  Sarah  insisted. 

"Well,  that  can't  be  so,  because  Mr.  Puckle  is 
coming  here  to  dine  as  usual  to-night.  Windy  tele- 
phoned a  while  before  you  came,"  Betty  announced. 

"That  is  why  I  am  hurrying  to  finish  these 
wreaths.  I  shall  hang  them  on  the  dining-room 
walls  to-night.  They  are  prettier  there  than  hung 
before  the  windows,"  she  explained. 

Sarah  was  mystified.  And  she  was  thankful  that 
things  had  been  mended  somehow  between  Cutmore 
and  Puckle.  She  was  thinking  about  this,  not  really 
listening  to  Betty,  who  had  gone  on  talking  about 
Puckle. 

"He  likes  these  little  homey  touches,"  she  was 
saying,  referring  to  the  wreaths.  "He  notices  every- 
thing like  that,  even  more  than  Windy  does.  Comes 
from  never  having  a  real  home  of  his  own,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"He  is  such  a  dear  man,  Sarah,  I  wish  you  would 
marry  him !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Betty !"  Sarah  cried,  coming  to  attention  at  the 
expression  of  this  wild  wish. 


272  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"I  once  heard  you  say  he  is  the  most  eligible  man 
in  Millidge,"  Betty  reminded  her.  "And  somebody 
ought  to  marry  him!" 

"Well,  I  can't  oblige  you,  or  risk  Mr.  Puckle's 
happiness  in  such  an  adventure  now,"  Sarah  began 
after  a  little  silence. 

Betty  looked  up,  caught  her  eyes  with  that 
curious  prescience  which  women  have  of  other 
women's  knells  and  bells. 

"I  am  engaged,"  she  said. 

"To  Mr.  Towne!"  Betty  returned.  It  was  not 
a  question,  but  an  affirmative. 

"How  could  you  have  known,  when  it  is  only 
since  last  night!"  Sarah  exclaimed. 

"We  have  been  expecting  it  for  a  long  time.  I 
told  Windy  before  our  marriage  that  some  day  it 
would  be  Mr.  Towne  for  you." 

She  had  risen  from  her  stool,  allowing  the  holly 
to  fall  as  she  stepped  across  the  rug,  laid  her  palms 
upon  Sarah's  cheeks,  lifted  her  face  and  kissed  her. 

"My  dear,  I  am  so  glad;  if  you  are  as  happy  as 
I  am  it  will  be  wonderful !"  she  said  tenderly. 

Sarah's  lips  trembled;  she  put  out  a  hand  and 
drew  Betty  to  her. 

"But,"  she  quavered,  "can  one  be — happy  with 
Charlie  Towne?" 

"Off  and  on,  yes,"  the  young  wife  answered  ju- 
diciously. "Now  to-day  I  am  very  happy,  but  yes- 
terday— well,  yesterday  I  was  not.  It  runs  that  way 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  273 

when  you  are  married,  which  is  better,  because  no 
one  could  endure  happiness  all  the  time.  You  only 
love  all  the  time." 

"But  surely,  Betty,  one  need  not  care  so  much. 
One  could  be  married  with  less  love  than  that," 
Sarah  objected,  regarding  her  with  a  half  smile. 

"It  is  done,  but  I  should  not  risk  it,"  Betty  an- 
swered seriously. 

"It  seems  to  me  love  should  be  given  in  propor- 
tion to  the  happiness  you  receive,"  Sarah  argued. 

"No,  that  is  discounting  love.  You  can  love  your 
husband  according  to  his  best  qualities  easily  and 
without  much  strength  of  devotion,  because  you  be- 
come accustomed  to  it  like  the  sense  of  security.  But 
you  must  love  him  according  to  his  needs,  his  faults, 
and  weaknesses.  That  is  an  active,  diligent  devo- 
tion which  keeps  love  alive,  the  only  kind  that  does, 
I  believe." 

"Well,  in  that  case  I  should  be  obliged  to  care 
more  than — than  he  deserves  for  Charlie,"  she  coun- 
tered in  the  tone  of  one  who  does  not  like  this 
bargain. 

"We  all  do  if  you  look  at  it  that  way,"  Betty 
answered  gravely.  "Men  are  queer,  Sarah,"  she 
began  again.  "They  must  be  watched  and  tended. 
I  suppose  that  is  why  God  created  the  first  woman, 
not  because  Adam  was  lonesome,  with  all  he  had  to 
do,  but  the  Lord  perceived  that  he  needed  somebody 


274  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

to  look  after  him,  give  him  a  push  out  and  up  in  the 
world,  so  He  gave  him  a  wife." 

"Oh,  Betty,  you  areisuch  a  dear!"  Sarah  cried, 
looking  up  at  her  and  letting  out  a  peal  of  keen 
feminine  laughter. 

"So,  we  have  been  that  gift  of  God  to  men  ever 
since,"  conceding  only  the  gravity  of  a  smile  to 
Sarah's  mirth. 

"We  have  the  care  of  them.  If  they  do  not  make 
good,  it  is,  I  believe,  always  some  woman's  fault." 

"You  make  us  responsible  for  the  whole  world!" 
Sarah  cried. 

"No,  they  are  responsible  for  that,  the  big  things 
achieved,  civilization,  but  we  are  responsible  for 
them.  It  is  our  business  to  love  and  cherish  them, 
and  never  to  forsake  them  from  the  day  they  are 
born  until  death  us  do  part." 

"You  make  the  date  of  marriage  very  early!" 

"One  must  be  married  to  be  the  mother  of  one 
of  them,"  Betty  retorted.  "That  is  why  I  believe 
in  real  citizenship  for  women.  So,  we  shall  be  mar- 
ried to  them  and  close  enough  to  look  after  them  all 
the  way  through,"  she  concluded. 

"What  does  Windy  think  of  your  views'?"  Sarah 
asked  lightly. 

"He  doesn't  know  them.  He  only  knows  that  I 
love  him,  but  not  how  much,"  she  answered,  looking 
down  at  the  green  boughs  spread  like  a  wreath  about 
her  feet.  "I  didn't  know  at  first  myself.  I  thought 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  275 

it  would  be — just  happiness — you  see.  You  learn 
it.  Love  teaches  you — love!"  she  said. 

"And  Windy?"  Sarah  ventured. 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  know  it,  but  he  is  learning  very 
fast,"  she  answered,  smiling,  changing  into  the  witty 
feminine  at  her. man's  expense. 

Some  woman  with  Betty's  wisdom  should  write 
a  book  on  this  subject  and  call  it  "Our  Children." 
If  she  did,  we  should  know  more  about  men  than 
we  do.  They  may  be  the  sons  of  God,  but  they  are 
the  children  of  women  forever. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

This  Winter  of  1919  was  not  altogether  a  hard 
season  in  Millidge,  except  for  the  poor  who  suffered 
for  fuel  on  account  of  the  coal  strike,  and  for  the 
industrial  workers  who  were  thrown  out  of  employ- 
ment in  the  factories  and  mills  half  the  time,  due 
again  to  lack  of  fuel  to  conduct  these  businesses. 
The  city  authorities  had  their  hands  full.  The 
charity  workers  did  a  great  deal  of  profitless  busi- 
ness, feeding  these  poisoned  poor,  and  clothing  these 
wilfully  needy,  who  surled  at  any  job,  and  starved 
from  perverted  principle.  They  sickened  and  died 
on  the  town  and  had  to  be  buried  at  the  city's  ex- 
pense, victims  to  the  last  of  their  agitators  and  lead- 
ers. But  over  and  above  this  reeking  mass  of  mad- 
ness, poverty,  and  hunger,  there  remained  sanity. 
The  real  people  kept  up,  went  about  their  affairs 
and  pleasures.  The  strike  ended.  There  was  finally 
coal  for  the  furnaces  and  factories.  The  workers 
returned  to  their  work.  The  first  shock  of  this  wave 
of  unrest  had  passed,  when  men  trembled  for  their 
businesses,  and  good  people  with  catastrophic  imagi- 
nations feared  the  worst.  After  all,  you  know,  the 
worst  never  happens,  because  whatever  is  bad  can 

be  so  much  worse. 

276 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  277 

Society  life  in  Millidge  was  not  so  gay  as  usual, 
due  to  the  long  shadows  of  sorrows  still  stretching 
across  the  world,  to  the  sobering  thought  of  income 
taxes,  surtaxes  that  had  to  be  paid,  and  later  col- 
lected from  the  less  and  less  patient  patrons  of  mar- 
kets and  trades. 

Sarah  Crombie  was  now  confessedly  engaged  to 
Charlie  Towne.  She  was  having  her  last  fling  as  the 
brilliant  spinster  of  her  set.  She  entertained  a  great 
deal  and  went  everywhere,  always  with  Towne  in 
tow.  And  to  the  amusement  of  those  who  knew  her 
best,  she  was  making  it  a  real  fling.  She  had  become 
the  radiant  woman,  coquettish;  she  flirted  indis- 
criminately and  with  considerable  success. 

Charlie  Towne  looked  on  with  amazement  and 
some  misgivings  at  Sarah's  performances.  Having 
engaged  herself  to  him,  she  dismissed  him  and 
effaced  him  on  all  those  occasions  when  he  might 
have  shone  as  the  affianced  husband  of  this  regal 
beauty.  He  was  more  than  peeved;  he  was  dimin- 
ished. His  office  as  the  official  lover  in  Millidge 
social  circles  had  been  declared  vacant.  Every 
woman  now  regarded  him  with  that  sort  of  indiffer- 
ence. He  had  become  negligible  when  he  had  ex- 
pected to  be  of  a  distinction  and  added  importance. 

"What  has  come  over  Sarah  Crombie?"  Cutmore 
asked  his  wife  one  evening  after  they  had  returned 
from  a  ball  at  the  Golf  and  Country  Club. 


278  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"She  was  perfectly  lovely  to-night,"  Betty  an- 
swered, not  catching  the  drift  of  his  question. 

"And  she  flirted  openly  with  half  a  dozen  men," 
he  added. 

"Yes,  she's  attending  to  Charlie  Towne,  paying 
him  off  for  the  affairs  he  affronted  her  with  for  years 
before  he  asked  her  to  marry  him,"  she  answered. 

"He's  confoundedly  resigned!"  with  a  laugh  as 
short  as  a  sneer. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Sarah  kept  it  up  indefi- 
nitely. She  is  very  angry  with  him.  She  has  been 
for  years,"  she  added. 

"What  is  she  marrying  him  for  then*?"  he  wanted 
to  know. 

"It  is  a  way  she  has  of  putting  her  indignant  foot 
on  his  neck.  Some  women  are  like  that,"  she  ex- 
plained. 

He  said,  drawing  her  closer,  that  he  was  certainly 
glad  she  was  not  like  that. 

"No,  it  wouldn't  work  in  your  case,"  she  an- 
swered in  a  tone  which  implied  that  she  had  con- 
sidered this  plan  and  rejected  it  as  not  practical. 

Betty  was  passing  through  a  period  of  peace  and 
enchantment  at  this  time.  She  was  contented  about 
her  husband.  Windy's  soul  of  honor  seemed  to  be 
resting  quietly  in  the  order  of  things.  He  was  ab- 
sorbed in  his  practice.  He  had  ceased  to  be  critical 
of  Puckle.  It  seemed  that  he  had  at  last  resigned 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  279 

himself  to  accept  Puckle  as  a  partner.  There  was 
no  doubt  about  this  being  his  point  of  view.  In  his 
own  mind  he  always  occupied  the  vantage-ground 
of  being  in  the  position  to  accept  or  refuse  what  was 
offered,  or  to  get  what  was  not  offered  but  was  es- 
sential to  his  happiness.  He  had  never  been  affected 
or  disciplined  by  his  experience.  He  had  a  spirit 
that  could  not  be  bent,  and  that  would  not  regret. 
He  never  reviewed  his  own  past.  His  way  of  get- 
ting rid  of  it  was  to  vault  out  of  it  and  remember 
it  against  himself  no  more  forever. 

He  left  his  deeds  behind  him,  good  and  bad,  as 
nature  sheds  the  profits  and  losses  of  her  seasons. 
This  was  a  highly  spiritual  performance,  but  not 
moral.  By  this  means  he  was  invariably  free  to 
commit  his  next  aggression  against  the  future.  He 
had  the  qualities  of  a  great  nature,  you  may  say, 
which  is  by  no  means  to  be  confounded  with  a  great 
character.  His  conscience  had  never  really  awak- 
ened, that  thing  in  a  man  which  fears  and  retreats 
and  frequently  saves  him  from  errors  and  even 
crimes.  He  had  only  one  ideal  of  honor,  which 
never  takes  the  place  of  conscience.  The  conditions 
of  this  secular  world  have  crossed  too  many  wires 
between  every  man  and  his  ideal.  Down  here  in  the 
dust  of  the  road,  it  is  not  so  much  your  ideal  as  it  is 
a  question  of  the  other  fellow's  rights.  Cutmore 
recognized  only  his  right  to  act  according  to  his  own 
honor;  if  that  preserved  the  other  fellow,  so  much 


280  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

the  better;  if  it  did  not,  his  obligation  ceased.  In 
olden  days  you  became  a  knight  without  fear  and 
without  reproach,  or  a  bandit,  still  without  fear  and 
without  reproach.  But  in  more  recent  times  men 
have  died  in  prison  or  on  the  gallows  for  one  ad- 
venture too  many  along  this  line. 

Betty  had  a  way  of  trailing  her  husband  through 
these  high  mountain-passes  where  he  kept  his  per- 
sonal views  of  life.  She  followed  him  across  per- 
ilous heights  when  she  shuddered  at  the  abyss  below 
of  which  he  was  never  aware.  She  suspected  him 
of  being  an  outlaw  on  these  spiritual  altitudes.  But 
she  kept  up  with  him,  leaving  her  wing-tracks  in  the 
very  air  he  breathed,  determined  to  be  his  salvation 
any  moment  he  needed  salvation,  wishing  and  pray- 
ing morning  and  evening  that  God  would  take  a 
hand  in  this  business,  fearing  that  the  child  she  bore 
might  be  a  son,  doubting  the  wisdom  of  Windy's 
becoming  the  father  of  a  son  under  these  circum- 
stances. 

During  the  early  Spring  months  Martin  Puckle 
continued  to  come  in  and  out  of  this  house.  His 
manner  was  that  of  a  man  in  a  place  where  divine 
services  are  going  on,  subdued,  delicately  reverent, 
easily  confused. 

Betty  was  not  talking  much  these  days.  She 
would  sit  folded  in  a  blue-and-gold  scarf  listening 
while  Windy  and  Puckle  talked.  They  were  more 
companionable  now.  And  while  Windy  frequently 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  281 

forgot  her  presence  in  the  heat  of  an  argument,  as 
a  man  may  forget  his  own  heart,  being  sure  it  beats 
true  to  him,  Puckle  was  always  conscious  of  her. 
From  time  to  time  he  consulted  her  with  a  glance, 
as  if  to  say,  "Are  we  going  to  fast  for  you*?" 

And  she  would  give  him  a  smile,  meaning,  "No, 
you  are  not  up  with  me  yet." 

Sometimes  in  these  debates  that  raked  the  world 
Puckle  would  get  Cutmore  on  the  defensive.  Then 
Betty  leaned  forward  in  her  chair  with  a  look  of 
confidence,  a  challenge,  which,  if  Puckle  caught  the 
glint  of  it  in  her  eye,  confused  him  and  made  him 
stumble  over  the  point  which  would  undoubtedly 
have  defeated  his  antagonist  in  this  tournament  of 
wit.  But  Puckle  sometimes,  because  the  younger 
man  with  his  swifter  wit  brought  him  to  bay,  would 
stand  up  on  the  hind  legs  of  his  mind  like  a  par- 
ticularly ugly,  massive  old  bear  and  paw  the  air 
in  deliberately  helpless  confusion. 

This  always  brought  the  response  he  sought  from 
Betty — a  laugh  sweet  and  high.  She  would  lean 
back  in  her  chair,  smack  her  hands  together,  and 
fill  that  room  with  the  triumphant  trills  of  her  mer- 
riment. Whereupon  Cutmore  would  glance  over 
his  shoulder  at  her  for  the  briefest  instant  and  then 
return  to  the  attack,  hammer  and  tongs,  always  sure 
that  Betty's  bells  would  ring  only  to  celebrate  his 
victory,  not  Puckle's. 


282  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

One  evening  they  had  started  such  a  debate  during 
dinner,  on  some  obscure  principle  of  the  law,  in  that 
deep  and  secret  place  where  it  touches  the  mere  in- 
stincts of  life  which  have  never  been  legalized,  al- 
though most  laws  are  made  to  keep  them  within 
bounds. 

They  continued  this  discussion  after  they  returned 
to  the  parlor.  Puckle  always  took  his  coffee  sitting, 
Cutmore  took  his  standing.  Betty  invariably  forti- 
fied herself  behind  the  tray  on  a  small  table  which 
had  been  placed  before  her.  They  were  so  arranged 
on  this  evening.  Cutmore  stood  like  the  graceful 
sword  of  himself  facing  Puckle,  his  back  turned  to 
Betty.  He  was  holding  his  cup  and  saucer  in  one 
hand,  the  other  raised  for  a  gesture,  eyes  bent  on 
Puckle  waiting  for  a  chance  to  sweep  all  this  wisdom 
of  words  aside  with  the  simple  statement  of  a  man. 

Puckle  glanced  at  Betty.  She  was  not  smiling, 
and  she  would  not  return  his  glance.  Her  head  was 
bent.  Something  in  her  manner,  a  sort  of  lowliness 
of  love  that  fears  made  him  go  on  talking.  He  kept 
it  up  in  the  face  of  Cutmore' s  impatience  to  speak, 
as  some  statesmen  stop  the  settlement  of  dangerous 
issues  in  Congress  with  a  wind  of  words  that  blows 
until  the  close  of  that  session.  He  delivered  himself 
and  continued  to  do  so.  It  was  a  dull  harangue  on 
what  the  law  had  done  in  the  way  of  disciplining 
these  elemental  instincts  of  men.  He  illustrated. 
He  made  citations. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  283 

Cutmore  canceled  his  arraignments  for  that  ges- 
ture, leaned  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantel,  grimly 
determined  to  make  his  point,  but  willing  to  remain 
polite  about  it  if  Puckle  did  not  push  him  too  far. 

"It  is  the  subjugating  of  these  instincts  that  makes 
society  possible,"  the  latter  was  saying.  "You  can 
not  preserve  any  relation  in  life  upon  your  own 
emotions,  resentments,  or  desires.  You  must  recog- 
nize principles  that  do  not  recognize  you,  but  the 
order  of  things  which  they  preserve  and  protect. 
There  can  not  be  any  such  thing  as  government  or 
civilization  without  law,  which  merely  counts  you 
as  a  digit  of  the  whole,  not  as  an  individual.  You 
are  compelled  to  submit  your  rights  even  to  arbitra- 
tion. We  yield  the  privilege  of  settling  our  own 
differences,  even  in  matters  involving  the  most 
sacred  honor,  because  if  every  man  exercised  it,  the 
order  would  be  disrupted.  We  should  have  groups 
and  packs,  but  not  unity  of  society,  no  common  pur- 
pose, no  wide  security.  The  destinies " 

"Do  you  know  what  the  'unwritten  law'  is?"  Cut- 
more  interrupted. 

"There  should  not  be  such  a  term  recognized 
among  enlightened  peoples,"  Puckle  answered 
shortly. 

"It  will  exist,  though,  as  long  as  men  do,  because 
it  is  the  one  law  that  is  written  in  us,  not  in  any 
statute.  It  has  outlasted  all  legislation,  every  form 


284  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

of  government,  because  it  is  the  strongest !"  Cutmore 
exclaimed. 

"It  is  the  weakest  place  in  us  and  in  our  order," 
Puckle  retorted,  glancing  again  at  Betty,  who 
seemed  to  have  retreated  and  who  was  regarding 
him  with  a  faint  appeal. 

"I  grant  you  that  we  need  a  constitution  and  by- 
laws for  the  organizations  in  which  we  live  and  for 
the  institutions  we  create,  but  there  may  come  mo- 
ments when  a  man's  personal  rights  have  been 
violated  and  even  if  the  courts  avenged  him,  he  is 
not  quite  a  man  if  he  waits  for  the  law.  Then  it  is 
a  sort  of  divine  inspiration  to  avenge  his  own  wrong. 
Would  I  call  a  sheriff  to  protect  Betty4?" 

"Oh,  that  is  conceded,"  Puckle  said  impatiently. 

"Suppose  I  am  not  called  upon  to  defend  my  own 
life;  suppose  under  circumstances  which  have  arisen 
many  times,  especially  during  this  War,  as  you 
know,  an  officer  betrays  some  man  under  him,  prac- 
tically ruins  that  man's  life,  shall  he  sneak  sniveling 
to  a  military  court1?" 

Puckle  made  a  sound.  He  was  about  to  inter- 
rupt, but  Cutmore  would  not  be  interrupted.  He 
had  forgotten  every  consideration  save  his  own  out- 
raged honor. 

"He  would  be  a  fool  and  a  craven  to  do  so.  The 
War  is  over.  We  are  man  to  man  once  more.  If  he 

crosses  my  sight  now,  such  a  man "  his  glance 

flamed.  He  was  about  to  betray  himself  before 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  285 

Betty.  He  had  forgotten  her.  He  had  changed 
natures. 

Betty  was  bending  forward,  lips  parted,  eyes  wide 
with  terror,  fixed  upon  this  Windy  whom  she  had 
never  seen  before. 

Then  she  had  seen  Puckle  check  him  with  some 
rumbled  word  of  command. 

Cutmore  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  He  came  to 
himself  under  Puckle's  merciless  stare.  He  turned, 
looked  down  at  Betty.  She  perceived  that  this  was 
not  the  man  who  had  just  flared  into  a  rage. 

"Hello,  Betty,"  as  if  she  were  a  pleasant  surprise. 

"Hello  Windy !"  smiling  faintly. 

"All  this  prancing  bother  you,  Betty*?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"It  was  just  prancing,"  Puckle  assured  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  she 
had  strength  to  speak  only  the  shortest  word,  and 
preferred  "yes." 

After  that  evening  Puckle  "irised  out."  He  did 
not  come  as  usual  to  dine  with  the  Cutmores.  But 
Mrs.  Marshall  was  constantly  there.  Cutmore  him- 
self was  side-tracked  in  his  own  house.  Betty  be- 
came the  becalmed  center  of  many  delicate  activi- 
ties. She  was  "not  going  out"  now.  She  was 
sunning  herself  most  of  the  day  in  the  warm  June 
sunshine,  by  no  means  so  conscious  of  herself  as 
every  one  else  was  conscious  of  her.  If  she  had  a 


286  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

cross  she  bore  it  like  a  rose  in  her  hair.  She  could  be 
very  gay  when  Sarah  came  in.  Sarah  was  about  to 
be  married  now.  And  she  needed  cheerful  compan- 
ionship. 

It  was  about  this  time  one  evening  that  Windy 
came  in  with  the  grin  of  news  on  his  face. 

"I  saw  Tovey  to-day,"  he  announced.  "He  came 
into  my  office,  stayed  an  hour.  Wants  moral  sup- 
port. In  a  perfect  funk,"  he  laughed. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Mr.  Tovey?"  Betty 
asked,  but  not  if  you  observed  it,  in  the  tone  of 
curiosity. 

"He's  engaged  to  Margaret  at  last.  When  he 
told  me,  he  pulled  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped 
the  perspiration  off  his  face.  Then  he  dried  his 
fingers.  He  said  he  had  been  expecting  it  for  a  long 
time,  but  that  it  had  happened  quite  suddenly." 

"Margaret  was  in  this  afternoon;  she  told  me," 
Betty  answered,  looking  amused.  "It  happened  last 
night  at  the  rehearsal  they  had  for  Sarah's  wedding. 
Margaret  says  she  was  oppressed  by  the  heat  and 
went  out  on  the  veranda,  alone.  Presently  Mr. 
Tovey  came,  looking  for  her. 

"They  sat  down  out  there.  He  explained  that 
Sarah  had  sent  him.  Margaret  says  she  said  that 
if  Sarah  had  not  sent  him  some  one  else  would  have 
noticed  that  they  were  not  together  and  driven  him 
forth  to  find  her,  and  wasn't  it  awful!  He  agreed 
that  it  was.  Then  Mr.  Tovey  began  to  grumble. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  287 

He  said  that  they  might  really  have  liked  each 
other,  but  that  they  had  never  had  the  chance  to 
choose.  She  agreed  that  they  had  not  been  free 
agents.  Not  for  one  moment!  he  said,  bitterly. 
Then  they  sat  there  and  talked  about  us,  Sarah  and 
me,  and  the  rest,  the  times  we  had  made  them  get 
together,  the  various  occasions  when  they  would 
have  liked  to  show  their  independence  and  act  nat- 
urally. Margaret  said  it  had  been  much  harder  on 
her,  since  she  was  the  girl,  and  no  doubt  everybody 
thought  she  was  trying  to  catch  him,  when  many 
times  she  had  tried  to  avoid  him.  Mr.  Tovey  said 
yes,  and  he  had  tried  to  help  her  avoid  him,  but  it 
was  no  use.  They  were  the  victims  of  a  conspiracy." 

"And  what  did  you  say  to  that,  Betty*?"  Cutmore 
interrupted,  accusingly. 

"Wait,  I  am  coming  to  the  climax,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Margaret  says  that  after  they  had 
roundly  abused  us  all  Tovey  said  complainingly, 
'If  we  had  only  been  left  alone,  we  should  no  doubt 
have  fallen  in  love,  and  now  we  don't  know  whether 
we  are  or  not.  And  you  don't  know  whether  you 
want  to  marry  me  or  not,  do  you,  Margaret*?'  She 
says  she  admitted  to  him  that  she  had  been  forced  to 
think  about  this,  and  that  it  had  been  very  em- 
barrassing because  he  was  the  one  person  who  never 
mentioned  it  to  her.  She  says  he  seemed  to  be  hor- 
ribly cut  up  and  that  he  had  immediately  taken  both 
her  hands  in  his  and  gone  on.  They  were  her  very 


288  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

words.  She  left  the  rest  to  be  inferred,"  Betty 
ended,  laughing. 

"You  see,  she  really  meant  to  get  him!"  Cutmore 
said. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  has  always  been  in  love  with  him. 
And  I  think  Mr.  Tovey  was  attracted  to  her.  But 
he  is  timid.  We  had  to  give  him  a  shove,"  she  ad- 
mitted. 

"Not  one,  but  many.  The  idea  of  Tovey' s  being 
timid!"  he  snorted. 

"Well,  somebody  had  to  marry  Margaret!" 

"Why?" 

"Because  she  wanted  to  love  and  be  loved.  Every 
woman  does !" 

"Even  you?"  teasingly. 

"I  am,"  she  answered  prettily. 

By  some  unconscious  association  of  ideas  this  re- 
minded her  to  ask  him  about  Puckle. 

"Oh,  Puckle  is  all  right,"  he  assured  her.  "But 
he's  letting  down.  He  is  slumping.  He  is  growing 
so  fat  he  wheezes  when  he  walks.  He  never  plays 
golf  now.  Sometimes  he  works  furiously.  Some- 
times he  is  so  gentle  he  almost  reminds  you  of  a 
beatitude,  then  just  as  we  begin  to  believe  in  his 
piety,  he  raises  an  infernal  rumpus.  He  quarrels  all 
day  long  at  Smalley  and  Miss  Smith,  and  I  have  to 
see  any  client  that  comes  because  he'd  take  a  piece 
out  of  him  if  we  let  him  in  there.  I  doubt  if  he  is 
in  good  health. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  289 

"I  do  hope  he  won't  die  yet,  Windy !  He  is  such 
a  dear  man.  And  you  are  not  quite  on  your  feet  for 
a  big  job  like  that  yet !"  she  exclaimed  anxiously. 

Love  is  the  most  unscrupulous  and  acquisitive 
thing  for  love  in  this  world.  We  do  not  know  how 
many  grasping  millionaires  get  the  habit  first  of 
grasping  to  feed  and  comfort  and  exalt  some  one 
beloved. 

Late  in  June  the  Millidge  Ledger  announced  the 
birth  of  a  daughter  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Windham  Cut- 
more. 

But  the  brief  statement  conveyed  little  idea  of 
the  commotion  this  event  occasioned. 

Cutmore  was  confounded.  He  had  been  taken 
completely  by  surprise,  not  by  the  advent  of  the 
baby,  he  had  been  expecting  that,  but  by  his  own 
sensations.  He  told  Puckle  that  Betty  had  a  girl 
baby.  Then  he  stood  before  him,  running  his  hands 
through  his  hair  as  if  this  hair  was  giving  him  great 
pain.  And  he  was  so  bemused  that  Puckle  repeated 
his  solicitous  inquiry  about  Betty. 

"Oh,  Betty*?    She  is  all  right." 

His  manner  implied  that  Betty  had  not  changed 
nor  batted  an  eye  since  he  saw  her  last.  He  was 
absorbed  in  something  else,  not  even  the  baby,  but 
in  the  astounding  change  in  his  own  relations. 

He  went  to  Tovey's  office  and  told  him  that  he 
had  "become  a  father."  In  reply  to  Tovey's  con- 


290  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

granulations,  he  said  that  he  was  "all  shot  to  pieces." 
He  said  that  no  doubt  it  came  natural  for  Betty  to 
be  a  mother.  Women  were  like  that.  They  were 
born  mothers.  But  he  doubted  if  there  had  ever 
been  a  born  father.  It  came  as  a  shock  to  him.  The 
more  so  because  this  infant  regarded  him  as  a  total 
stranger,  although  it  showed  a  marked  preference  for 
its  mother. 

This  reminded  him  to  warn  Tovey  if  he  ever  be- 
came the  father  of  a  female  infant  not  to  refer  to  it 
as  "it"  in  the  presence  of  "its"  mother.  Betty  had 
showed  the  first  signs  of  animation  when  he  had  gone 
in  there  and  asked  to  see  "it."  She  had  looked  up 
reproachfully  and  reminded  him  that  the  baby  was 
as  much  entitled  to  her  gender  as  if  she  had  been  a 
boy,  and  she  had  noticed  that  no  one  ever  called  a 
male  infant  "it." 

"Now  what  do  you  think,  Tovey,  is  she  right 
about  that1?"  he  asked  this  senseless  question. 

Tovey  was  vague,  but  he  had  the  impression  that 
a  boy  came  into  his  he-pronoun  at  once. 

"Yes,  but  why  do  we  call  the  others  'it'  ?  We  do, 
instinctively.  Is  it  delicacy,  a  desire  to — er — con- 
ceal this  sacred  gender  or — what*?" 

Tovey  was  not  prepared  to  commit  himself.  The 
thing  that  astounded  him  was  that  Cutmore  had 
gone  off  on  this  irrelevant  tangent.  He  concluded 
that  Cutmore  was  a  bit  off — nervous  condition.  He 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  291 

reached  into  the  drawer  of  his  desk  and  pulled  out 
a  flask. 

"Here,  you  need  a  bracer,"  he  said. 

Cutmore  stared  at  it.  He  never  drank  and  he 
despised  whisky,  but  that  made  no  difference.  He 
helped  himself  generously. 

"Just  leave  it  there.  I  may  take  some  more  pres- 
ently," he  said  when  Tovey  made  a  motion  to  re- 
trieve what  remained  of  the  precious  stuff. 

He  became  calm  at  once,  talked  rationally  about 
matters  in  general,  making  only  fleeting  references 
to  his  own  affairs  until  after  the  third  drink,  when 
he  became  deadly  calm.  Then  he  told  Tovey  that 
he  had  an  affair  of  honor  to  settle.  He  had  had 
the  chance  before  his  marriage.  He  regretted  that 
a  foolish  indiscretion  had  kept  him  from  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  opportunity.  Now  with  a  wife  and 
child  on  his  hands  it  made  this  harder  to  do.  He 
dreaded  the  risks  for  them.  But  his  purpose  was 
fixed.  He  thought  if  he  ever  got  this  matter  settled 
to  his  satisfaction  he  would  himself  be  different. 
There  were  times  when  he  doubted  his  sanity — he 
had  thought  so  constantly  of  this  one  thing.  Al- 
though he  had  never  mentioned  it.  He  would  not 
do  so  now,  but  in  case  anything  happened  to  him 
he  wanted  Tovey  to  look  after  Betty  and  the  baby. 
Puckle  was  all  right,  but  he  didn't  care  to  leave  them 
in  his  charge.  Couldn't  say  why;  no  reason,  just  a 


292  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

feeling.  And  so  on  and  so  forth,  speaking  with 
studied  distinctness. 

Then  he  stood  up  and  walked  with  studied  steadi- 
ness from  Tovey's  astounded  presence. 

That  day  Mrs.  Marshall  told  her  husband  that 
she  hoped  poor  Betty  would  not  find  out  the  con- 
dition her  husband  was  in.  It  would  be  bad  for  her. 

"What  condition  is  he  in?"  the  Colonel  asked 
mildly. 

"He  is  perfectly  drunk,  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the 
parlor!" 

"Bless  my  soul !"  the  Colonel  exclaimed.  "Maybe 
it  is  because  the  baby  is  a  girl." 

"No,  he  said  he  was  glad  she  is  a  girl.  It  is  be- 
cause he  is  what  he  is!  There  is  no  telling  what 
Betty  has  suffered  with  a  drunkard  for  a  husband !" 
she  moaned. 

The  charm  of  this  baby  grew  on  Cutmore,  espe- 
cially after  Betty  was  up  and  around  and  could,  you 
may  say,  demonstrate  the  infant.  Puckle  came  at 
last  to  see  it,  and  saw  it  a  long  time  in  silence.  He 
had  been  coached  in  the  use  of  acceptable  pronouns 
by  Cutmore. 

"She  is  pretty,  very  pretty,  and  like  her  father," 
he  said  gravely. 

Betty  screamed  with  delight.  He  had  conceded 
her  sex,  which  was  a  dear  and  beautiful  sex.  And 
he  had  seen  how  much  like  Windy  she  was. 

"You  are  the  first  one  to  mention  the  resemblance, 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  293 

Mr.  Puckle !"  she  cried  in  tones  of  high  praise.    "I 
noticed  it  the  moment  I  laid  eyes  upon  her." 

He  wagged  his  head  sententiously  as  if  this  was 
to  be  expected.  He  had  in  fact  seen  no  likeness 
between  this  offspring  and  its  father,  but  if  ever  a 
sycophant  lived  for  the  crumbs  of  woman's  favor, 
that  sycophant  was  Puckle.  His  rule  was  to  figure 
out  what  Betty  wanted  him  to  say,  and  to  say  it, 
regardless  of  any  little  toad  of  truth  that  might 
squat  in  the  way  of  his  mendacity. 

Betty  made  a  visit  to  her  parents  in  Culloden 
during  August.  When  she  came  home  a  week  later 
Sarah  and  Charlie  Towne  had  returned  from  their 
wedding- journey.  And  they  were  preparing  to  get 
away  again  for  the  remainder  of  the  Summer,  after 
the  military  tournament.  The  various  posts  of  the 
American  Legion  were  to  meet  in  Millidge  during 
the  last  week  in  August,  for  the  purpose  of  solidify- 
ing this  organization  and  to  advertise  its  numerical 
strength,  which  would  in  turn  indicate  the  influence 
the  Legion  could  exert  on  conditions  in  the  State, 
whether  industrial,  political  or  moral. 

Millidge  was  vastly  upheaved  and  animated  pre- 
paring for  this  occasion.  The  business  section  was 
veiled  in  bunting  of  red,  white  and  blue.  Cables 
stretched  across  the  streets  were  hung  with  banners. 
There  was  a  rooster  comb  of  flags  on  top  of  the 


294  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

buildings.  The  avenues  in  the  residence  section 
were  gay  with  patriotic  emblems. 

One  evening  Towne  came  home  with  a  suppressed 
air  of  news.  He  waited  until  he  was  alone  with 
Sarah  after  dinner  to  tell  it. 

"Hayden  was  in  town  to-day,"  he  announced. 

"What  is  he  doing  here?" 

"Arranging  for  the  entertainment  of  his  men. 
He  is  one  of  the  officers  of  the  Legion  at  the  post 
in  Columbus;  I  had  lunch  with  him." 

"Not  at  the  club!" 

"No  we  went  to  the  Dingly  Dell  Tearoom!" 

"Prudent!" 

Towne  squared  himself  before  his  wife.  He  re- 
garded her  with  a  hectoring,  manly  stare. 

"See  here,  Sarah,  Hayden  is  all  right!"  he  said. 

"He  has  recovered  from  his  injuries  then.  But 
not  from  the  fright  Windy  gave  him."  Coolly. 

"You  don't  understand !"  he  protested. 

"No,  that  is  why  you  must  never  bring  him  here. 
I  will  not  receive  him." 

Towne  came  and  seated  himself  argumentatively 
by  her  side. 

"I  brought  that  affair  up  with  Hayden  to-day," 
he  began  in  spite  of  the  gathering  scorn  in  Sarah's 
eyes. 

"He  was  perfectly  frank  about  it.  He  said  he 
was  never  more  surprised  than  when  Cutmore  as- 
saulted him.  He  could  have  thrashed  him  with 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  295 

one  hand  tied  behind  him,  he  said.  And  I  don't 
doubt  it.  He  is  a  very  strong  man.  But  he  realized 
at  once  that  Cutmore  was  insane,  that  he  was  not 
responsible.  There  had  never  been  a  difficulty  be- 
tween them.  He  scarcely  knew  Cutmore  by  sight. 
Does  not  remember  ever  having  spoken  to  him.  He 
had  no  idea  of  what  was  in  Cutmore' s  crazed  brain 
when  he  followed  him  out  of  the  club  that  night, 
But  when  he  saw  that  the  man  was  irresponsible, 
mad  as  a  hatter,  he  could  not  afford  to  beat  him  up." 

Sarah  listened  imperviously. 

"I  think  it  is  to  his  credit,  and  his  silence  after- 
ward. He  could  have  ruined  Cutmore,  but  he  held 
his  peace." 

"And  left  town!"  Sarah  added. 

"Yes,  he  says  that  he  expected  every  day  to  hear 
that  Cutmore  had  done  something  else  that  proved 
his  condition.  He  is  certain  that  he  is  a  dangerous 
lunatic,  as  I  have  thought  for  more  than  a  year. 
I  told  Puckle  so." 

"What  does  Mr.  Puckle  think?" 

"Nobody  ever  knows  that.  But  he  is  hopelessly 
in  love  with  Betty.  That's  why  he  keeps  Cutmore 
as  a  partner.  The  way  he  has  of  holding  things 
together  for  Betty.  But  it  will  come  yet.  You 
mark  my  prediction!  Tovey  says  he  was  crazy 
drunk  the  day  after  Betty's  baby  came." 

"Absurd!  Windy  doesn't  drink;  he  never  did," 
indignantly. 


296  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"No,  he  never  did.  But  now  he  does.  He  is 
going  to  pieces,  I  tell  you.  First  thing  you  know 
he  will  blow  up  like  a  rocket." 

"Well,  I  wish  Hay  den  would  stay  away  from 
here!  There  is  Betty  and  the  baby  to  think  of 
now,"  she  said  anxiously. 

"Oh,  he  is  coming  with  his  post  next  week.  Com- 
pelled to  be  on  hand.  But  I  imagine  he  will  take 
some  precaution  to  protect  himself,  and,  of  course, 
he  will  avoid  Cutmore." 


CHAPTER  XV 

On  Monday  the  young  veterans  of  the  Great 
War  began  to  pour  into  Millidge.  They  came  on 
all  trains,  and  special  trains.  They  arrived  on 
trucks,  massed  and  whooping  as  they  had  crossed 
France  to  the  front  line  trenches,  and  they  marched 
in  columns  from  the  nearer  towns. 

Betty  was  out  on  the  veranda  with  the  baby  in 
her  carriage  watching  the  splendid  sight  of  thou- 
sands of  soldiers  in  uniform  swinging  along  the 
avenue. 

She  had  been  grievously  disappointed  because 
Windy  would  not  wear  his  uniform,  with  its 
wound-stripes  and  its  gold  stripes,  nor  join  the  cele- 
bration on  this  splendid  occasion.  She  thought  that 
probably  it  was  because  little  Betty  was  a  girl,  and 
he  felt  that  it  was  no  use  to  "carry  on"  just  for  a 
girl.  He  had  gone  to  the  office  as  usual,  giving  the 
excuse  that  he  was  compelled  to  prepare  for  an  im- 
portant railway  damage  suit  which  would  come  up 
at  the  September  term  of  the  court.  However,  as 
the  hours  passed  and  the  air  throbbed  with  the 
boom  of  cannon,  and  shivered  with  the  shouts  of 
soldiers,  her  spirits  rose.  She  hoped  Windy  would 
meet  some  of  his  old  comrades,  and  that  he  would 

297 


298  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

bring  them  home  with  him  for  dinner.  She  spent 
the  afternoon  preparing  for  this  emergency.  She 
expected  him  to  call  over  the  phone  and  tell  her 
how  many  and  who  were  coming  with  him.  He 
usually  did,  but  as  the  hours  passed  and  he  did  not 
call  her,  she  decided  to  call  the  office. 

Mr.  Cutmore  had  not  been  in  that  day,  Smalley 
informed  her.  Windy  had  changed  his  mind. 
After  all  he  was  out  having  a  good  time.  She  was 
glad. 

When  dinner  was  ready  to  serve  he  had  not  come 
in.  She  did  not  expect  her  husband  to  keep  hours 
on  a  day  like  this.  He  was  ysually  punctual.  Let 
him  be  unpunctual  if  he  was  enjoying  himself.  She 
went  up  and  put  the  baby  to  bed.  She  was  already 
dressed  for  the  evening,  but  she  went  back  to  her 
mirror  and  enhanced  herself  with  a  touch  here  and 
there.  Then  she  came  down-stairs  and  waited. 
The  noise  of  the  day  was  dying  down.  It  was  dark 
now,  and  nearly  nine  o'clock. 

JShe  was  seated  at  the  piano  playing  a  military 
air  she  had  heard  from  a  band  passing  that  morning, 
when  the  telephone  bell  tinkled.  She  flew  to  an- 
swer. Windy,  at  last! 

It  was  not  Windy.  Sarah  was  calling.  She  said 
she  just  wanted  to  know  how  Betty  had  enjoyed 
the  day.  Yes,  it  has  been  splendid.  Was  the  baby 
well'?  That  was  all  right.  Asleep*?  Good.  Had 
Windy  come  in  yet?  No.  Well,  all  the  men  were 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  299 

out  with  the  boys  to-night.  If  Betty  was  lonesome 
she  would  come  over.  Charlie  was  out  too. 
Good-by. 

Betty  went  to  the  kitchen  door  and  told  Marie 
that  she  might  as  well  go  home.  There  was  no 
telling  when  Mr.  Cutmore  would  get  in.  They 
would  just  change  the  dinner  into  a  cold  supper 
when  he  did  come.  Then  the  phone  rang  again. 
Surely  it  was  Windy  this  time.  But  it  was  Mr. 
Puckle. 

"Hello!  That  you,  Betty?"  his  voice  sounded 
gay.  "Has  Windy  come  in  yet*?"  No,  she  was 
expecting  him  every  minute.  Was  he  coming  out*? 
She  would  be  glad  to  have  him. 

"No;  may  come  later.  Tell  Windy  to  call  me 
when  he  comes  in.  I'll  be  at  the  office!" 

Well,  she  would,  she  said,  and  hung  up  the  re- 
ceiver, wondering  as  she  did  so  why  Mr.  Puckle 
was  staying  in  the  office  so  late.  She  was  coming 
up  the  hall  from  the  phone  when  the  door-bell  rang. 
She  flew  to  the  door.  Windy  must  have  forgotten 
his  latch-key! 

"How  are  you,  Betty;  all  right*?"  Crombie's 
voice  came  in,  and  then  Mr.  Crombie  himself 
stepped  across  the  doorsill,  stood  looking  down  at 
Betty  like  a  white-face  liar,  smiling  but  not  pom- 
pous as  he  usually  was. 

"Yes,  I  am  all  right.  Why?"  she  asked,  feeling 
a  strange,  sinking  sensation  about  her  heart. 


300  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"Oh,  I  was  just  passing;  thought  I'd  drop  by. 
Windy  in  yet?" 

"No,  I'm  expecting  him  every  minute,"  she  an- 
swered in  a  voice  that  shook  the  least  bit. 

"Well,  half  the  fellows  are  out  that  should  be  in. 
Town's  in  an  uproar.  Great  time.  I'll  send  Sarah 
over  to  keep  you  company  until  Windy  gets  in. 
Baby  might  get  sick  or  something!"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,  you  needn't  do  that.  The  baby  is  per- 
fectly well,  and  I'm  expecting  Windy  any  minute 
now,"  she  answered. 

She  went  back  into  the  parlor  and  sat  where  the 
light  made  shadows.  She  was  strangely  faint.  Her 
hands  trembled  as  she  laid  them  upon  her  breast. 
What  was  the  matter  with  her"?  Why  did  her 
hands  tremble,  and  why  was  she  holding  them  to 
her  breast4?  Windy  would  be  here  any  minute  now. 
And  of  course  she  was  weak.  It  was  past  nine 
o'clock  and  she  had  not  had  her  dinner !  That  was 
not  fair  to  the  baby.  She  would  go  and  have  some- 
thing at  once. 

But  she  did  not  go.  She  remained  seated  like  the 
pale  ghost  of  herself,  listening,  listening  with  her 
very  heart  for  Windy's  step.  The  baby  began  to 
cry.  She  could  hear  the  fretful  wail  up-stairs.  She 
must  go  up  and  nurse  the  baby.  But  she  did  not  go. 
She  did  not  have  time,  she  was  listening  so  intently 
for  Windy.  She  forgot  the  baby;  presently  she 
remembered  and  realized  that  it  had  stopped  crying. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  301 

She  glanced  at  the  clock  and  saw  that  it  was  five 
minutes  past  eleven. 

Some  one  came  hurriedly  upon  the  veranda.  She 
was  at  the  door.  She  flung  it  open.  This  was 
Tovey  standing  in  the  dark  outside. 

"Mr.  Tovey!"  she  cried.  "Where  is  Windy? 
What  has  happened*?  So  many  people  have  been 
here,  calling  on  the  phone,  asking  for  him.  And  I 
don't  know  where  he  is !"  she  wailed. 

"Hush,  Betty;  don't  talk  so  loud.  The  street  is 
full  of  people,"  he  whispered. 

"I'll  find  Windy.  You  go  in  and  keep  quiet; 
don't  answer  the  phone  any  more  to-night,  and  don't 
come  to  the  door  if  the  bell  rings,  unless  I  call  you," 
he  said  hurriedly  as  he  ran  down  the  steps. 

Betty  closed  the  door.  She  stood  trembling,  a 
prey  to  every  fear.  She  turned  her  head,  looking 
for  something  on  the  wall.  She  reached  out  a  hand 
and  touched  the  black  button  on  the  electric  switch. 
The  light  paled  and  died  in  the  globes  above  her 
head.  She  began  to  move  about  like  a  burglar  in 
her  house,  pressing  these  buttons.  She  had  the 
feeling  suddenly  that  these  lights  might  attract 
curious  eyes.  She  needed  this  darkness  to  protect 
her.  Then  she  came  back  and  sat  on  the  lowest  step 
of  the  stairs.  If  the  baby  cried  again  she  would  go 
up.  If  not,  she  would  wait  here  until  Windy  came. 

The  night  was  warm,  but  she  shivered.     Her 


302  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

teeth  chattered.  She  had  no  idea  what  time  it  was 
now.  Some  one  was  whistling  far  down  the  street. 
She  stiffened  to  attention.  Some  one  was  coming 
up  from  the  pavement  to  the  house  still  whistling 
that  familiar  tune.  She  tried  to  rise  when  she  heard 
the  rattle  of  a  key  in  the  door.  She  saw  him  enter 
by  the  light  in  the  street  outside,  and  close  the  door. 
She  heard  him  fumble  for  the  switch  on  the  wall. 

The  next  instant  the  hall  was  flooded  with  light, 
and  she  saw  Windy  standing  before  her. 

That  was  the  last  of  him.  He  faded  into  a  swift 
darkness.  She  knew  nothing  until  she  returned  to 
consciousness  on  the  sofa  in  the  parlor  with  Windy*  s 
arms  about  her. 

"You  poor  darling,"  he  exclaimed,  smiling  as  he 
kissed  her.  "Why  didn't  you  go  to  bed?" 

She  did  not  return  this  smile.  She  was  still 
staring  at  him,  searching  him  with  agonized  eyes. 

"I  should  have  called  you.  I  did  try;  couldn't 
get  you.  All  the  telephone  girls  out  on  a  lark,  or 
at  the  windows  watching  the  crowds,  I  suspect. 
But  I  expected  to  get  back  long  before  night." 

She  glanced  at  his  shoes,  caked  with  mud  and 
dust,  like  the  shoes  of  one  who  has  made  a  hard 
journey. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Windy*?"  she  whispered 
through  dry  lips. 

He  was  about  to  laugh,  but  her  look  forbade  it. 

"Out  of  town,  all  day,"  he  answered. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  303 

"Why?' 

"Didn't  want  to  be  here;  that's  why.  Expected 
to  come  in  late,  lost  my  way,  wandered  around  for 
hours.  Thought  I'd  never  get  back!  Awful  sorry 
you've  been  stirred  up;  couldn't  help  it." 

"You  walked?" 

"Back,  yes.  Didn't  take  the  car  down  this  morn- 
ing. Such  a  crowd;  no  place  to  park  it.  Had  a 
chance  to  go,  and  I  went." 

"Windy,  something  has  happened  to  you.  What 
is  it?"  she  asked,  beginning  to  shiver. 

"Nothing  has  happened  to  me,"  he  protested,  and 
was  about  to  go  on  speaking  when  the  look  in 
Betty's  eyes  stopped  him. 

"You  didn't  come,"  she  began  slowly.  "I  ex- 
pected you  every  minute,  but  you  didn't  come. 
Then  Sarah  called  up  to  ask  if  you  had  come,  and 
if  the  baby  was  asleep,  and  if  I  was  all  right.  Be- 
fore I  could  think  how  strange  it  was  that  she  should 
be  asking  such  questions,  Mr.  Puckle  called  and 
asked  if  you  were  here.  That  was  after  nine 
o'clock.  Somebody  rang  the  door-bell.  I  thought 
it  was  you.  It  was  Mr.  Crombie.  He  wanted  to 
know  if  you  had  come  in.  And  Tie  asked  if  I  was 
all  right.  He  said  he  would  send  Sarah  to  keep 
me  company.  I  told  him  no;  I  was  expecting  you 
any  minute.  Oh,  I  told  them  all  that!  Hours 
passed  and  the  bell  rang  again.  This  time  it  was 
Tovey.  He  was  frightened.  His  face  was  white 


304  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

as  a  sheet.  He  caught  my  hands  and  held  them 
tight,  and  I  felt  his  trembling.  He  asked  for  you 
too.  Then  he  said  he  would  go  and  find  you.  He 
told  me  not  to  answer  the  telephone  any  more  to- 
night, and  not  to  come  to  the  door.  So  I  turned  out 
the  lights  and  sat  down  there  on  the  stairs  to  wait 
for  you.  What  does  it  mean,  all  those  people 
trying  to  find  you,  and  Tovey  telling  me  not  to 
answer  the  bells'?"  she  concluded  with  a  dry  sob. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  he  answered  vaguely, 
"unless  they  had  something  on  for  the  evening," 
he  added. 

"No,  Tovey  was  frightened,  and  they  all  lied  to 
me.  I  could  feel  their  lies  like  chills  creeping  over 
me!" 

At  this  moment  the  phone  rang.    He  started  up. 

"No,  I'll  answer  it,"  she  said. 

He  followed. 

"Yes,  this  is  Betty,  Sarah,"  she  said.  "Of  course 
I'm  all  right — "  her  voice  lifted  to  lightness. 
"Windy?  Yes,  he  is  here — He's  been  out  of  town 
all  day;  just  in.  No,  indeed,  I  have  not  been 
frightened.  Thank  you.  Good  night." 

She  moved  to  give  place  to  him  at  the  phone. 

"Mr.  Puckle  left  a  message  for  you  to  call  him 
when  you  came  in.  He  said  he  would  be  in  the 
office,"  she  informed  him. 

"Well,  he's  probably  in  bed,  where  you  should 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  305 

have  been  hours  ago.     It  is  after  twelve,"  he  said, 
"and  I  am  hungry  as  a  bear." 

She  was  not  convinced,  but  she  was  reassured  by 
this  nonchalance.  With  a  little  cry  she  flung  her- 
self upon  his  breast;  she  clung  to  him. 

"Oh,  Windy,"  she  sobbed,  "I  love  you  so!  I 
love  you !" 

"Of  course  you  do,"  he  laughed. 

They  crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room.  They 
sat  down  to  the  table.  But  before  Cutmore  could 
help  Betty's  place,  a  hoarse,  monotonous  cry  sound- 
ed far  down  the  avenue. 

Betty  looked  at  her  husband.  "What  js  it4? 
What  are  they  calling1?"  she  breathed,  all  the  horror 
of  the  night  returning  to  oppress  her. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  was  listening.  Betty 
saw  him  whiten.  The  blood  leave  his  lips,  his  eyes 
widen  and  darken,  not  with  fear,  but  what  was  it? 
This  look  that  she  had  never  seen  before  on  his 
face*?  Triumph!  Horrible  triumph! 

"Windy!"  she  screamed. 

"Wait,  Betty,"  he  cried,  thrusting  back  his  chair. 
"I  will  be  back  in  a  minute."  And  passed  swiftly 
into  the  hall. 

She  heard  him  working  impatiently  at  the  front 
door,  too  eager  to  remember  the  latch.  And  she 
could  hear  distinctly  now  what  the  news-hawks 
were  crying  as  they  drew  nearer. 

Extra !    Extra !    All  about  the  Hayden  murder ! 


306  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

"All  about  the  Hayden  murder!  Extra!" 
She  came  slowly  into  the  hall.  She  climbed  the 
stairs,  as  if  these  stairs  had  been  a  steep  mountain. 
She  remembered  the  name.  How  many  times  these 
months  past  she  had  repeated  Hay  den's  name  to 
herself,  wondering  what  this  man  had  to  do  with 
her  husband.  What  it  was  between  them  that  no 
one  would  mention.  Something  dreadful,  Mrs. 
Patten  had  said.  And  now  Hayden  was  dead,  mur- 
dered. And  Windy  had  been  away  all  day.  No 
one  knew  where.  And  oh !  she  wanted  her  precious, 
innocent  baby! 

"A  man  has  been  murdered,"  Cutmore  announced 
grimly  when  he  came  up-stairs,  to  find  Betty  with 
her  baby  asleep  in  her  arms. 

Then  he  saw  it  in  her  eyes  that  till  this  moment 
had  always  meant  love,  a  speechless  terror  of  him. 
He  came  and  stood  before  her. 

"What  are  you  thinking,  Betty*?"  he  demanded. 

She  was  silent.  She  dropped  her  eyes  as  if  this 
sight  of  him  was  another  murder  in  her  heart. 

"That  I  killed  him?" 

No  answer. 

"Listen,  Betty,  it  was  for  you,  because  you  love 
me  the  way  you  do,  that  I  didn't  kill  him.  That  is 
why  I  left  town  to-day.  Lest  I  should  see  him  and 
do  it.  You  must  believe  me !" 

"I  want  to  believe,  Windy!"  she  moaned. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  307 

He  seized  a  chair,  thrust  it  roughly  in  front  of 
her,  and  sat  down.  Still  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes. 
It  was  as  if  she  could  not. 

"I  will  tell  you  all  about  it;  I've  meant  to  for  a 
long  time,  as  soon  as  you  were  strong  enough  to  bear 
it,"  he  began  with  a  sob. 

For  the  next  hour  Betty  listened  to  the  story  of 
Cutmore's  tragedy.  He  began  with  what  had  hap- 
pened in  France.  He  told  everything,  his  intoler- 
able sufferings,  his  humiliation,  finally  his  uncon- 
trollable fury  at  the  sight  of  Hayden  that  evening 
at  the  club. 

"I  would  have  killed  him  then,  but  he  begged 
for  his  life  when  I  had  my  hands  on  his  throat.  He 
promised  to  leave  and  never  to  show  his  face  in  this 
town  again.  Last  week,  Saturday  it  was,  I  heard 
that  he  had  been  here,  that  he  would  come  with  his 
post  to  the  Legion  celebration  this  week. 

"This  morning  I  started  to  the  office,"  he  went 
on  speaking.  "I  had  a  horror  of  this,  of  this  day, 
of  what  it  might  bring  forth.  Down  here  at  the 
next  corner  I  saw  that  old  covered  wagon  creeping 
into  town.  Babe  was  driving.  He  had  ten  gallons 
of  liquor  hidden  in  his  fodder  and  bedclothes.  I 
knew  what  would  happen  to  him  if  he  undertook  to 
sell  it.  And  I  was  afraid  of  what  would  happen 
to — to  you,  Betty,  if  I  stayed  in  town,  knowing  that 
Hayden  had  defied  me.  So,  I  got  into  the  wagon 


308  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

with  Babe  and  made  him  turn  his  team  back  toward 
the  country." 

Betty's  eyes  had  risen  upon  him  again.  But  his 
own  were  lowered  now.  His  face  worked.  He 
made  an  effort  to  speak  and  sobbed  instead.  At  last 
he  went  on  speaking  gently  as  of  some  case  he  had. 

"It  was  a  pleasant  day,  like  no  day  I  have  had 
in  years,  not  since  I  lived  on  Crow's  Mountain.  I 
began  to  feel  the  old  gay  peace  I  have  not  known 
even  in  your  love,  Betty,  not  since  those  weeks  of 
horror  in  France.  We  talked  of  the  plainest  things, 
no  thinking,  just  the  things  you  know  and  feel 
without  thinking.  But  for  you  and  the  baby,  I 
should  have  gone  on  with  Babe  to  the  mountain. 
The  best  law  practice  in  this  town  could  not  have 
held  me." 

"Don't  say  another  word,  Windy!"  Betty  cried. 
"I  understand  and  I  believe.  I  understand  every- 
thing now,  the  whole  of  you,  dear!" 

She  laid  the  baby  in  its  crib  and  took  this  elder 
child  to  her  breast.  He  went  on  talking  about  this 
day,  the  release  he  had  felt  from  the  fury  of  think- 
ing about  Hayden.  He  had  left  Babe  early  in  the 
afternoon.  The  trails  through  the  woods  confused 
him  and  he  had  lost  the  way.  It  was  after  eleven 
o'clock  before  he  came  in  sight  of  the  lights  of  the 
town. 

But  he  did  not  tell  her  that  the  house  was  being 
watched  at  this  moment.  He  had  seen  these  men 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  309 

in  the  shadows  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
when  he  came  in.  Later  when  he  went  out  to  buy 
the  "Extra"  they  were  still  there,  he  remembered 
now  and  understood. 

The  next  morning  Cutmore  was  himself  to  Betty's 
eyes.  She  embraced  him  tenderly  at  the  door  when 
he  started  for  the  office.  She  ventured  to  wave  to 
him  after  he  had  stepped  into  his  car.  She  smiled 
when  he  answered  with  a  quick  flirt  of  his  hand. 
Another  car  came  up  behind  and  obstructed  her 
view.  She  went  back  in  the  house,  though  she  had 
meant  to  watch  Windy  out  of  sight. 

Cutmore  went  immediately  to  Puckle's  office. 

Puckle  was  sitting  there  as  usual  behind  his  desk. 
He  stared  when  Cutmore  entered  as  if  he  saw  a 
ghost. 

"Good  morning!" 

"Good  morning,  Windy!" 

"I  have  seen  the  papers;  got  in  last  night  just 
before  the  extra  came  out,"  he  began  at  once. 

"Where  were  you  before  that4?"  Puckle  asked, 
regarding  him  steadily. 

Cutmore  told  him  the  story  of  his  day  in  Babe 
Thompson's  wagon,  of  why  he  had  gone. 

"Be  difficult  to  prove  an  alibi  on  that  fellow's 
testimony;  meet  anybody,  speak  to  anybody  on  the 
road?' 

"Not  a  soul,  except  Thompson." 


310  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

Puckle  was  silent.  Cutmore  perceived  that  he 
did  not  believe  this  story. 

"How's  Betty  T  he  asked  gruffly. 

"She  is  all  right." 

The  door  opened  and  an  officer  appeared,  with 
Miss  Smith  and  Smalley  showing  for  a  moment  like 
terrified  specters  behind  him.  He  had  a  warrant 
for  the  arrest  of  Windham  Cutmore,  he  said.  Was 
this  Mr.  Cutmore  *?  approaching  him.  It  was.  He 
held  out  the  ugly  paper. 

"That's  all  right,  Officer.  You  go  ahead.  We 
will  come  down  presently  and  fix  this  up !"  Puckle 
said  coolly. 

The  officer  hesitated.  Then,  "Very  well,  Mr. 
Puckle,  I'll  just  drift  around  outside,"  he  said  with 
another  look,  curious,  half  admiring,  at  Cutmore  as 
he  went  out. 

"We  may  as  well  go  now  and  see  this  through," 
Puckle  rumbled,  rising  and  putting  on  his  hat. 

They  went  out  together.  They  walked  together 
through  the  crowded  street  with  a  hundred  curious 
eyes  fixed  upon  them;  not  a  word  was  exchanged 
between  them.  Cutmore  wondered  vaguely  why  he 
was  doing  this,  going  with  Puckle,  allowing  Puckle' s 
name  and  influence  to  weigh  for  him  in  this  crisis 
when  he  was  sure  Puckle  believed  in  his  guilt.  But 
not  for  a  moment  since  he  had  entered  his  house  last 
night  and  saw  Betty  lying  like  a  broken  lily  on  the 
bottom  step  of  the  stairs,  had  that  vision  been  out 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  311 

of  his  mind.  He  supposed  this  was  why  he  was 
accompanying  Puckle.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  did  not  think  of  himself  at  all,  neither  his  honor 
nor  his  life.  He  was  thinking  of  Betty. 

When  he  came  home  that  evening  he  did  not  tell 
her  of  the  preliminary  trial  before  the  Coroner,  nor 
that  he  was  out  on  bond,  charged  with  the  murder 
of  Randolph  Hayden,  nor  that  Puckle  believed  he 
was  guilty,  although,  through  his,  Puckle' s  influ- 
ence, an  immediate  hearing  had  been  secured  and 
also  an  order  admitting  him  to  bail,  awaiting  the 
action  of  the  Grand  Jury.  Puckle  had  said  he 
would  keep  it  out  of  the  papers.  Therefore  she 
need  not  know — yet.  He  told  her  simply  that  he 
was  very  tired.  She  could  understand  that.  She 
ministered  to  him,  and  did  not  talk  nor  tell  him  that 
her  father  had  been  there  during  the  day.  Only  one 
question  she  asked  him. 

"Windy,  haven't  you  any  idea  who  did  it?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

She  went  up-stairs  to  the  baby.  After  a  while  he 
followed.  It  was  an  effort,  he  noticed,  climbing  the 
stairs.  He  felt  like  a  man  whose  fever  had  left  him. 

His  weakness  was  so  great  the  next  day  that  he 
only  managed  to  conceal  it  until  he  reached  the 
office,  where  he  sat  all  day  not  working.  No  one 
came  in,  neither  Puckle  nor  the  clerks.  He  under- 
stood. 


312  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

That  evening  Betty  asked  him  the  name  of  the 
other  man  who  had  survived  that  terrible  night  in 
France. 

"Harpeth,  John  Harpeth,"  he  answered  after  a 
pause. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  seen  him  since?" 

"Once." 

"Where?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause  this  time  before  he 
answered. 

"In  my  office,  last  October,  while  you  were  in 
Culloden.  I  told  you  last  night  what  a  wreck  he 
was,  half  crazed.  I  have  no  idea  what  became 
of  him." 

"Did  he  know  about  Hay  den?  The  wrong  order 
he  had  given  that  sent  you  to — to  so  many  deaths?" 

"Yes,  he  knew.  He  talked  about  Hayden.  He 
was  very  bitter,  of  course." 

The  next  morning  Puckle  received  a  letter, 
among  many  others.  He  read  it.  Then  he  read  it 
a  second  time.  Then  he  stared  at  it  and  murmured, 
"Poor  child,  poor  little  Betty!" 

Puckle  was  out  of  his  office  the  whole  of  that 
morning.  When  he  came  back  after  lunch  he  went 
in  to  see  Cutmore.  He  found  him  stretched  on  an 
old  leather  couch  with  his  arms  over  his  head,  star- 
ing at  the  ceiling. 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  313 

"Don't  get  up,"  he  said  quickly,  when  Cutmore 
made  an  effort  to  rise. 

"I  think  you  told  me  you  were  the  only  man  who 
survived  that  night  Hayden  sent  the  seven  of  you 
out  when  you  were  caught  in  the  German  advance," 
he  began. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  said,"  Cutmore  answered. 

"But  you  were  not!"  Puckle  announced. 

"I  thought  so  then." 

"What  about  Harpeth?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.  Probably  dead,  was  nearly,  the 
last  time  I  saw  him." 

"He  was  here  with  the  Legion  last  week.  Name's 
on  the  roster.  Saw  it  myself  to-day.  Registered 
queer.  Don't  see  how  they  let  it  pass.  'John 
Harpeth,  for  Captain  Hayden.'  "  he  repeated. 

"Poor  devil!"  Cutmore  murmured. 

Puckle  got  up  from  his  chair,  came  and  bent  over 
Cutmore,  who  regarded  him  with  a  gray  smile  on 
his  dry  lips. 

"Young  man,  you  go  home,  and  don't  come  back 
here  until  I  send  for  you!"  he  commanded  roughly. 

Cutmore  did  not  move.  He  continued  to  smile 
that  emaciated  grin  into  Puckle' s  face. 

"Can  you  get  up*?"  Puckle  demanded  suspi- 
ciously. 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  can,"  Cutmore  answered 
indifferently. 


314  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

Puckle  went  out  and  saw  Smalley.  Smalley 
seized  his  hat  and  disappeared.  Puckle  came  back 
and  looked  at  Cutmore,  whose  eyes  were  closed. 
This  would  never  do!  He  rumbled  it  without 
saying  it. 

Cutmore  lifted  his  lids  heavily  and  regarded  the 
red  face  above  him  still  with  that  weary  smile. 

"So  now  you  believe  I  am  innocent!"  he  said. 

"Of  course  you  are.  Plain  as  a  nose  on  a  dog's 
face !  You  are  always  innocent,  darn  it !" 

Cutmore  lay  in  a  strange  peace,  with  Betty  be- 
side his  bed.  He  had  dismissed  the  baby.  He  dis- 
missed the  doctor  every  day;  over  and  over  he  told 
the  nurse  to  go  out;  he  wished  to  be  alone  with 
Betty.  And  when  he  was  alone  with  her  he  ex- 
plained to  her  that  he  must  get  back  to  Crow's 
Mountain,  where  they  could  love  each  other  in 
peace.  There  was  a  house  on  the  ridge  above  the 
falls.  It  was  a  good  one.  He  had  lived  in  it  for 
a  year.  They  would  go  back  to  this  house,  yes. 
And  Betty  would  be  happy,  perfectly,  because  there 
was  no  world  in  this  place  and  their  nearest  neigh- 
bor would  be  the  blue  sky.  There  was  a  little  old 
gray  church  in  the  cove  below.  He  used  to  attend 
services  there  every  Lord's  Day.  Did  she  know 
that*?  They  would  go  there  together.  The  old 
codger  couldn't  preach  a  lick,  which  was  so  much 
the  better,  he  smiled  enigmatically  at  her.  Never 
once  had  he  asked  about  the  tragedy  that  had  laid 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  315 

him  low.  And  no  one  had  dared  to  bring  it  to  mind 
by  telling  him  that  Puckle  had  discovered  John 
Harpeth  confined  in  the  ward  of  a  Base  Hospital, 
from  which  he  had  escaped  twice  already,  only  to 
be  found  and  brought  back.  He  was  insane.  He 
readily  admitted  having  followed  Hayden  to  his 
room  in  the  Madison  Hotel  at  eight  o'clock  on  the 
evening  of  August  the  25th,  where  he  had  shot  him. 
It  was  at  the  same  hour,  he  said,  that  Hayden  sent 
the  seven  men  to  their  death  two  years  before  in 
No  Man's  Land. 

Puckle  came  out  one  evening.  Betty  met  him 
down-stairs  in  the  parlor.  She  was  very  pale  and 
prayerfully  sweet. 

"The  doctor  tells  me  that  Windy  is  better,"  he 
said  cheerfully. 

"Yes,  we  hope  so." 

"But  it's  been  a  tight  squeeze.  He  thinks  this 
collapse  is  due  to  a  long  strain,  not  a  recent  condi- 
tion at  all." 

"Mr.  Puckle,  will  he  ever  be  well  again*?"  she 
asked,  as  if  this  was  a  petition  she  desired  of  him. 

"He  will.  I  promise  you  that,"  he  answered  in 
his  firmest  tones. 

Had  he  ever  denied  Betty  anything1?  Not  so 
long  as  he  could  do  or  give  or  lie  to  comfort  her. 
He  was  not  telling  her  now  therefore  what  the  doc- 
tor had  really  said,  that  Cutmore  might  live  six 
months  or  a  year,  but  that  he  was  bound  to  go, 


316  THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

burned  out,  nothing  but  the  wick  of  a  remarkable 
vitality  left. 

Presently  they  went  up-stairs  together. 

The  sight  of  Puckle  seemed  to  remind  Cutmore 
of  something.  He  wished  to  be  alone  with  Puckle. 
Betty  and  the  nurse  went  out. 

He  began  to  grin  his  gray  grin. 

"I  made  it,  Sir!"  he  said,  using  the  title  he  con- 
ferred on  Puckle  only  when  he  was  in  the  mood  of 
the  highest  respect  toward  his  senior  partner. 

"Yes,  you  have  made  it,"  Puckle  agreed. 

"I'll  not  resign  again,"  he  went  on  with  a  yellow 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  "but  I'm  asking  for  leave  of 
absence." 

"Granted;  best  thing  you  could  take,"  Puckle 
assured  him. 

"We,  Betty  and  I,  are  going  up  to  my  house  on 
the  mountain  pretty  soon.  The  doctor  agrees,"  he 
went  on. 

"He  told  me  to-day  you  might  start  in  a  week, 
camp  out,  take  it  easy.  He  thinks  he'll  go  along 
with  you,"  Puckle  answered. 

"Yes,  I  understand — You  and  the  doctor." 

"Oh,  we'll  get  you  there!" 

"And  I  shall  go  out  up  there." 

"Hey4?" 

"Betty  knows,  but  she  doesn't  know  that  she 
knows.  She  can  stand  it.  She  will  be  glad  to  see 
me  through.  She's  that  kind." 


THE  EYES  OF  LOVE  317 

Puckle  nodded.  "Oh,  she  will  have  you  up  and 
around  in  no  time,"  he  said. 

"But  afterward,"  Cutmore  went  on  as  if  Puckle 
had  not  said  anything,  "afterward  it  will  go  hard 
with  her.  You  will  look  after  her.  We  understand 
one  another,  you  and  I." 

"No,  we  don't,"  Puckle  retorted,  blowing  his 
nose  violently.  "I  doubt  if  we  do  at  all.  You  are 
a  sick  man.  You've  lost  your  kick.  You'll  come 
up  presently,  prancing.  But  whatever  happens,  I'll 
look  after  Betty.  And  you  too,"  he  put  in  as  an 
afterthought. 

"So  long  as  she  lives'?" 

"So  long  as  either  of  you  live!"  answered  the 
honest  gentleman,  playing  the  game  to  the  last  card, 
keeping  up  his  front,  betraying  not  a  tremor  of  his 
heartache  to  this  man  who  read  it  like  an  open  book 
with  the  prescience  of  those  who  pass  soon. 

The  knights  are  not  all  dead.  These  two  meas- 
ured one  another,  according  to  his  valor,  each  after 
the  manner  of  his  kind,  and  were  satisfied.  Then 
Chevalier  Puckle  went  down-stairs  and  told  Betty 
that  her  husband  was  on  the  high  road  to  health, 
that  she  was  to  dismiss  her  anxieties  and  begin 
preparations  at  once  for  that  journey  to  Windy's 
mountain. 

THE   END 


